Kidnapping Tomatoes
by SaraBarns
Summary: Spain was out shopping. Oregano, he said he was getting. We didn't even need oregano. My car just came in from Rome... I just wanted to drive around. I was upset he didn't take me with him. Or at least that's what Feli tells me I said. I have to take his word for it... because I can't remember.
1. Chapter 1 907

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and all its wonderfully derpy characters don't belong to me~! (Neither do cliche plots involving amnesia...)

**A/N:** Okay! So this is Kidnapping Tomatoes~! In case you didn't get this from the summary, it's a story. About Spamano. And amnesia. And tomatoes. (And there are no sexytimes just yet, sorry to disappoint.) It's rated M only for Lovi's LOVELY potty-mouth at the moment, but I swear there's other stuff coming~! Later. So um... thank you SO much for clicking on my story, and please enjoy!

**(~.~) - Lovi~!**

'So many choices,' I mused, parousing the aisles slowly, examining each specimen carefully. Lovi might be mad if this wasn't _absolutely_ perfect!

For that matter, Lovi might be mad if this _was_ perfect. Lovi was always mad. But that was okay! Because he's so adorable when he's mad~!

But this... I wanted _this_ to be perfect anyway. This _had_ to be perfect!

There were the shiny ones, and the ones that looked really fresh, and then there were those uniquely shaped ones that I thought Lovi might love because he loved unique things so much and...

Ooh, my head. _Dios Mio,_ why were there so many choices?

It took me a while, but I did eventually narrow my selection down to only one case. Which ones would Lovi like, though? He was always so particular about this sort of stuff...

Kind of like a girl. But don't tell him I -or Francis and/or Gibert- said that.

Oh, decisions, decisions. Hmm.

Gosh, I was so unused to this kind of pressure lately.

Why, I don't think I've had to make a decision as stressful as this one since Lovi made me choose between my tomato fields and his (one of the saddest days of my life... Because if I chose _my_ tomatoes... well Feli is good at a lot of things, but he can't tend tomatoes. And he's always at Germany's place lately anyway! All of Lovi's tomatoes would die! And if I chose his place... all _my_ precious tomatoes would die!) we could only live in one house, after all.

It was clear his were healthier than mine for the majority of the year, but mine had more love put into them which made them taste better. (And if you asked me, I think Lovi thinks so too but he won't admit it.) But it's only because these are the tomato fields I've tended since I was a lot younger too, then that _mi poco tomate_ helped tend with me as he grew up. My fields shared the TLC I had given Lovi as a child, and the frustrations I'd held when he left me.

Okay, and maybe just a FEW sexual frustrations. Just a few decades worth. Hooray for _sexual tomatoes!_

"Are you quite finished yet?" A snobby looking (and I'm never a mean person anymore- he just LOOKED snobby- he even _smelled_ snobby) man asked me, crossing his arms and glaring down his nose (_Dios_ he was tall,) at me.

He had the same blue shirt the rest of the employees wore, but his was accompanied by a fancy looking name tag that read _Pedro_ in big red letters. His hair was slicked back in a manner that reminded me of Germany's, except this man's was a peppered shade of brown with streaks of gray, and his eyes were hooded from either a lack of sleep or some sort of health problem.

...Maybe they should get some better looking clerks.

"Oh, not yet, but I will be in a minute," I told him, flashing one of my brighter smiles at him (Which did NOTHING, Mio Dio, what was he, _stone?_) before looking back down into the case before me.

I was just about to point out the few I was trying to decide between, to ask his opinion, when my phone rang, my cheerful little ringtone blaring out from my phone's tiny speakers.

"Ah, just a moment please?" I said, holding up a finger to inform the clerk I would indeed purchase something just as soon as I answered this. He just frowned, and nodded.

Um... so maybe I was taking a little longer than most people to make my decision. This was so very important though! I couldn't possibly pick properly if I was distracted by anything at all! This was _serious!_

"Hola? Who is this?" I said after pressing the pretty green talk button.

Lovi always thought I was stupid for saying _bright colors_ and_ flashing things_ were pretty, but hey, I was a simple man with a simple mind, and colors and flashy things entertain me.

...

So do certain parts of the male anatomy, but let's not go _there_ right now~!

"Señor Antonio Fernandez Carriedo?" a female voice answered me.

"Sí?" I said, confused.

Well, this wasn't Hungary, because Hungary would always ask if I was with 'Roma' or not. And if I said yes, she would start panting and excuse herself with a nosebleed.

And it couldn't be Belarus, because she was very _to-the-point!_ In fact, she was _so_ very to-the-point, she just asked me if I knew where her big brother was before hanging up after I said no.

It wasn't Seychelles either, because she would always greet me with a cheerful "Hola Antonio!" And her voice was so pretty, I knew that anywhere.

Then there was Ukraine... She didn't call me very often, I'm sorry to say. She seems so sweet! We just never get the chance to talk because I have to keep Lovi from cussing out the other nations, and I suppose it's the same way with her and Belarus. Except Belarus _really_ wants to kill them, while Lovi just threatens to kill them.

And lastly... Belgium, but she always greeted me with a "Hi, _Antoine_," before launching into whatever she was calling about.

I... I didn't know this lady, did I? It didn't sound like one of the female countries I knew, and this phone was only for other nations and my boss to call me on.

"You are listed under Romano Vargas' phone as his emergency contact?" she said, before pausing, as though waiting for me to answer.

Well, she just said that, didn't she? I knew I was Lovi's contact. And now she was calling me to ask me that? Clearly she knew it too.

"Is that correct?"

"Sí," I said with a frown. "Why do you ask?"

'I can't focus on picking these out and talking on the phone at once! This lady is talking in circles- I'll buy all three and pick one out later and return the other two or something. Curse my Spanish single-track mind.'

"I'll take those three," I said to the clerk, gesturing to the ones I had been trying to choose between. I handed him my credit card and shifted to my other foot while switching my phone to my other ear. I watched him walk over to the register to ring me up as I listened to the lady begin to speak again. She had such a lovely voice, really! Maybe I should tell her so.

"Are you operating machinery or doing anything that requires your paying attention?" she asked calmly.

"Ah, what does that have to do with anything?" I wondered aloud. "No, no I'm not. Por favor, what is this call about?"

"Señor, Romano Vargas is in the emergency room of Hospital Nuestra Señora de América right now- he's undergoing surgery for injuries he sustained in a car accident involving two vehicles and a bus."

"W-What?" I laughed nervously, "Surely you're joking? Lovi- Romano... he doesn't even have a car here, all of his are in Rome..."

He'd just moved in a month ago, after all. For now, he was still using my car to get around. So when I left under the pretense of buying more oregano, because we were out, I had assumed he would be -and stay- at home. Surely she's joking. I mean, Lovi has cars. Lots of them. Fancy Italian brand-named cars that probably cost more than a lot of humans make in a year! But they're all _in Italy_.

"He was in a red Lamborghini at the time of the crash. Does that sound familiar?"

...

Oh yes, that sounds familiar. Mio Dio, that sounds familiar. In fact, Lovi and I are very well acquainted with the back seat... and the floor... and the trunk. (Don't ask about that last one.)

But... this means he does have his car. And he could indeed have been driving. And he could indeed be in the hospital.

"_S-Sí_... I didn't know he had it shipped up already!" I exclaimed, pressing my hand to the wall behind me as I staggered back a few steps. "_Dios Mio_, is he okay? What happened? I'll be right there!"

"Please hold, I have another call," the lady on the line informed me, and an elevator-y kind of music started playing over my speakers.

Waving off the confused protests of the (Still snobby-looking) clerk, I snatched the bag and my credit card back from him, before exiting the store in a whirlwind of emotions, most prominently worry and stress. Well, and, you know, _wind_... I think I was walking pretty quickly.

And anger... that was there too, but I pushed it down for the moment. If I would get angry, I would do it after I figured out what had happened to him. Maybe it was an accident. But for right now, Lovi was most important; Lovi and whether or not he was okay.

"_Señor_, are you still there? Should I stay on the line or would you like me to meet you outside the hospital?" the woman on the phone said, an undertone of stress now audible in her voice. "For some reason the Italian embassy called and said I should offer you both anything and everything you needed."

"Is he in stable conditions? Is everything okay?" I demanded, taking quick strides across the parking lot to my car.

"Well, he is undergoing surgery, so it's hard to say, but you should know..." she started, but I cut her off before she could finish.

"_Sí_, I can meet you outside the hospital," I said, before rather unceremoniously hanging up on her.

**(~.~) - Lovi!**

My little Lovi... My precious... _Dios_, if anything were to happen to him... Well, I might have to find my halberd again...

Now I know Lovi isn't a reckless driver. He speeds a lot, and so do I, but that's normal. That's not what has me worried. I know nothing as simple as a car crash could kill him. No, I'm worrying about any lasting effects. It could still take him several months to revive if he "died."

Depending on the manner of death, naturally. If it was a simple electrocution or drowning, it would be a few minutes. A heart stop or dehydration, an hour or so. Being frozen solid or blood loss, several hours. I knew all these from personal experience- myself and my friends both did.

But as far as getting your body mangled up goes... Well that's a different story. _Months._ Oh, they regain consciousness within a day, less sometimes, but their body usually won't work right.

The brain has to repair itself, then all it's connections. _Infinite_ connections. Then there are the bones. There are _206_ bones in the human body. Then the heart has to make sure it's working right. _Every millimeter_ of veins and arteries must function. Your spine has to usually piece itself together again and connect all of the above before you can move a _muscle_. Oh and don't forget not being able to eat or use the bathroom during all of that. What, you think your digestive and excremental systems would magically survive? You'd be wrong.

Imagine being _conscious_ for all of that.

Imagine the pain that causes- like a million needles entering your skin every second, half of which burn, the other half which feel like ice.

Imagine the hunger, the pain you'll go through; like starving for several months even when you try to eat, because your body just can't accept it.

I know all this because it's happened to me before. I just pray the same doesn't ever have to happen to my Lovi.

But I'll worry about all that when I have to. For right now I have to get to Hospital Nuestra Señora de América.

**(~.~) - Lovi~!**

Ahaha... The way I drove on the way to the hospital... well, it probably wasn't very safe.

At all.

For me _or_ the humans.

_Especially_ the humans.

But, hey, I made it in one piece! That's all that counts, right~?

T-The humans did too!

...

I _hope_...

Um, so what if I got pulled over five times before I got there?

All I did was show them my ID and they let me pass. My government always gave me the really fancy ID's with the shiny stuff on them that let me do stuff nobody else could do! Yay me!

But anyway~!

Since I was just outside of Madrid for that little shopping outing, (the products of which were still sitting in that bag, on my front seat,) I had to turn around and get back into Madrid to get to the hospital.

My house is just outside Madrid too, but on the opposite side. It's actually a little past Colonia Los Angeles, on a beautiful little side road that leads off into this sort of field-y area, and I own all of it~!

The scientist-y people even hacked all the satellite images of it to make sure it looked like there was nothing on the plot of land that was mine. Lovi looked it up on Google maps once; it looks really barren, with a few trees, but that's not how it is at all! It's really very lovely, with grass and tomato fields and a big mansion in a lovely sort of semi-shaded grove! It's really a stark sort of difference from the picture superimposed over the satellite ones.

Otherwise it'd certainly be developed by now. But since I sort of AM the government, they can't buy it off me~! Or find it~! Hooray for personal havens~!

But what was confusing me was that there's a hospital a lot closer than Madrid that's kind of near the house. So I didn't know what Lovi had been doing that he would be taken to Nuestra Señora de América instead of the one I was familiar with. He must have been driving in Madrid, but... What was Lovi doing in Madrid anyway?

The instant I reached the hospital, I pulled the car around in a screeching arc to stop in front of the curbed entrance to the emergency room. A very worried looking nurse was indeed waiting for me outside, in a petal-pink dress and matching hat. She clutched a clipboard close to her chest, and scrambled backwards a few steps as I tore my keys from the ignition and bolted from the car door to stand in front of her.

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, that's me," I said, hitting the lock button on my remote twice. She jumped as the horn resounded, but nodded shakily.

"This way, please?"

I followed her through the emergency lobby to the elevator, and she hit a button that had the number 9 on it. My eyes rose to the gauge above the doors, and watched the symbols light up as we ascended. We were on B now... Now 1, and 2...

"_Señor_, you really should know..." she began again, but the elevator doors opened, and two fat Europeans dressed as tourists entered the elevator just then, and she stopped talking again.

She kept shooting them glances, willing them to exit the elevator already, so that she could tell me whatever it was she had wanted to say. I, on the other hand, was completely unconcerned. Whatever she had to tell me could wait, si? I mean, I had to see Lovi. After I saw him then we could talk insurance and all that garbage. My government took care of that stuff for me, so I'm sure it'll be the same for Lovi.

Our pale, um... well-fed pair of companions stayed with us for the next five floors, and by 7 when they finally got off, the nurse seemed to have become beside herself with worry.

Now... Normally I would have comforted her.

Normally I would have asked her what was wrong and if I could help, and all manner of other friendly things, but...

Not today.

**(~.~) - Lovi!**

She accompanied me as I stormed through the halls -which I was honestly a little unnerved to find were quite _packed_ with small children and school teachers... The nurse had mentioned a bus involved in Lovi's crash. Were they from the same accident as Lovi? Were they all okay?- to the room she'd indicated Lovi was in, stammering and asking for me to wait, and being generally cumbersome. (And so were the kids, but even when I was angry/horny/determined, I was careful around children.)

But at the moment, the only thing on my mind was Lovi.

_Room 907. Room 907. Room 907._

It drove me forward, drove me to ignore the nurse's mumblings and the complaints of all the disgruntled people I shoved in my haste. With every breath, I muttered it, prayed he would be alright.

Room 906 passed me by, and room 905 was on my other side. I skidded to a halt in front of the closed door to room 907, and took a few seconds to catch my breath. The pink-clad nurse caught up with me as I took a last steadying breath, and within a moment of her arrival I was striding forward, turning the doorknob to room 907 and striding in.

"_Lovi,_" I breathed, and pulled up short at the sight of him.

He was dressed in a hospital gown, and there was a bandage plastered to his forehead, right above his left eye. I could see the marks of a large bandage around his midsection through the papery gown, and another around his right ankle. It looked like he'd broken an arm as well; the left, and there was a glazed look in his eyes that made me wonder what drugs he was on.

But this all... This was _manageable!_ So very manageable compared to the dark thoughts that had been coursing through my mind on the drive here. I could watch him and take care of him until his bones and those scrapes healed, and then everything would be fine!

"Oh, Lovi," I gasped, taking a few careful steps before sinking down to his side and taking his free hand into mine. "Y-You're okay! Oh, mi poco tomate, thank goodness..."

"Sorry?" Lovi said, his voice rising at the end questioningly. "Spain... what are you doing here?"

...

S-Spain?

But... But he _never_ calls me Spain.

Not anymore...

Not after...

"I... I'm on my own now, aren't I? What am I doing here? Why aren't I in Italy?" he demanded. "Where's Feliciano? And that piano bastard, where is he? What... What year is it?"

**(~.~) - Lovi...?**

**A/N: **GASP, totally didn't see_ that_ one coming, didja? (Ahaha, I'm a sucker for cheesy dramatic shit. Gotta love the classics. Anyway, I'm trying to make this work out, so... yeah. Like, dislike? I'd love opinions~!)  
Anyone have guesses for what Antonio was shopping for ;D? I made it really vague on purpose. Of course it'll be revealed later, but I love letting you guys come up with your own solutions. I've already got a few weird guesses from my friends and it's so awesome to know I did it right, because one of them DID guess right, but I didn't tell her so~! Good luck to you all haha~! I might not put up chapter 2 quite yet, but it is done, and I will get it up soon, promise! Kisses, all that shit, wish me luck on my finals... in TWO weeks! (I'm sooooo screwed Dx)

Edit: 6/28/12, fixed a couple sentences alluding to the Italian Independence history, a few grammatical errors


	2. Chapter 2 152

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia (as much as I might wish it did~) doesn't belong to me. I'm just a girl with a laptop. Yup. And a REALLY derpy imagination. So enjoy~!

**A/N: **Yay, chapter 2~! It's here. Yeah, I've had it done, but I've been trying to work on extending what I have written in advance, so that I can keep writing AND editing AND posting all at once! I'm thinking a weekly update is okay, right? Do Tuesdays work? I mean, Tuesday is my no-homework day, but I get out on June 20th anyway, so school's almost out. But yeah, Tuesday's best for me. We'll see how this works! Yay for end-of-the-year-little-homework. (And boo rat-disections!)

(...yeah, the Tuesday thing kinda died once summer started... just warning you... Spontaneous updates. Sorry. XD)

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

"A-Amnesia?" he stammered, leaning back in the blue armchair he was stationed in, and running a hand through his chocolate curls, clearly distressed. "You mean he doesn't remember me at _all?_"

"It's not just you," the nurse who had escorted him in told him, taking her hat off and toying with a long strand of dark chestnut hair. She looked over his shoulder at the bed where I lay, and I was careful to make it seem like my eyes were closed, before she turned back to face Spain. "It's everyone... Apparently everyone and everything he's done since he was 18. Does that mean anything to you?"

18 in human years, she means. I... how old am I now?

In human years?

In_ country_ years?

And what year is it_ now?_

"Yes... That was the year he moved out of m- his parents' house. I... I guess that means he's missing quite a lot of memory, then." Spain said.

So it would seem, I thought, and had to restrain myself from frowning.

"Sí, that's typical. But judging by how well he's been doing so far, I would say it's likely he will regain all of his memories." She paused, before adding, "I'm so sorry, Señor Carriedo... I can see you two were very close."

"Ah, it isn't your fault," he said, offering up a weak smile.

"Well... You should know, then, that he probably saved the children's lives."

I... I _what?_

He looked up, startled, and locked eyes with her as she continued, a small smile working its way onto her features.

"The second car's brakes had stopped working at a downhill intersection, and the bus was trying to cross its path." She paused again, before finishing. "It would have hit right in the middle if Señor Romano hadn't pulled up first to stop that from happening."

I did that?

"H-He saved all those children?" Spain asked, my eyes positively glowing with pride and admiration as he looked over at me, and I had to work to keep my breathing level, and my eyes shut.

"He did," she smiled. "You should be very proud of your..."

"Boyfriend," he choked out, and I could hear the tears welling in his eyes.

...

**_WHAT._**

I think my mind temporarily shut down its commentary department, because I could only listen to their conversation for the next few seconds.

Spain just... Spain just said I was his boyfriend?

He was my boyfriend?

Spain_ brought me up!_ What the crapola!

Not only does my last memory tell me that it's a _very_ bad thing to be openly gay, it also says Spain was in NO fucking state to start courting _anyone!_ He lost a fucking war to Austria! He lost _me_ to Austria! How the fuck did we get from there, me fighting for my independence, to now, where Spain is on his own, and apparently I am too, and he's _DATING_ me!

"Oh... Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, her eyes growing wide, and the same glassy glow developing in her eyes as she looked from Spain to me and back. "Oh, you poor thing," she whispered, before darting forward to wrap her arms around his shoulders, in an attempt to comfort him.

...

What? What! No! Don't "you poor thing," _him!_ "You poor thing," _me!_ I've been pranked!

First of all,** I** was the one that **got hit by a car!**

Or, apparently, hit by _one_ car and rammed into a**_ bus!_**

What is this black magic _fuckery?_ Who does Spain think he's dealing with? Is this some kind of sick_ joke?_

"Th-Thank you," he smiled, as the tears broke with the wetness in his eyes, and began to trickle down his cheeks.

Thank you my ass!

Bastardo would pay for this shit, if I found out he was lying or joking or playing some fucking trick on me, this would... this would be the end of any relation I had to him in the future!

Maybe I'd attack him!

Yeah!

That'd serve him right!

...

Shut up, I _can so_ attack Spain, bitch.

They both stood, and I heard them exchange words, and say something about coffee, before they started for the door. Spain diverted from that path though, and I closed my eyes quickly.

I had "fallen asleep" fifteen minutes ago, after Spain had gotten that kicked puppy look on his face when I told him I didn't remember anything since I was 18. He knew that meant since about the 1860s. I_ hoped._ He was rather oblivious after all.

I kept my eyes pressed together as he pressed a kiss to my forehead, and brushed a strand of hair away from my eyes. I waited until he had closed the door through, before opening my eyes and shifting into a sitting position.

Well... this was an interesting turn of events.

Since when the _hell_ had I been in a relationship with Spain? And why the fuck would I _ever_ do that?

I mean... N-Not that I would _never_ be in a relationship with someone as... _attractive_ as Spain, but...

I... I would only do that if I were a girl. Or in a more accepting era. Or... felt better about myself, or him, or didn't feel so angry about being taken from him by that piano bastard.

Speaking of which... Shit, _did_ Feliciano and I get our independence from the piano bastard?

Dammit, what year did Spain say it was? I knew I was apparently now in the 2000s... How... How different would it be? Would I remember typical things? The doctor told me it was a specific type of memory that I couldn't remember...

...

Oh,_ ironic._

Dammit, I'm really not in the mood for jokes. Especially memory jokes.

Well anyway, I suppose this had something to do with why I didn't find the nurse's dress improperly short, or the tomato bastard's clothes too casual. Because last time I checked, people dressed up a _lot_ more than this. And women didn't show their hands, wrists, shoulders, ankles, or anything higher, and they never wore their hair half as casually as this nurse had been.

...What kind of **fucked up** era was I in?

Yeah, I... would have pondered that more, only... Spain came back with a coffee just then.

And... I actually_ knew_ it was coffee. I guess it was the smell issuing from the steaming cup he held, the one that didn't have the lid.

"Lovi!" Spain exclaimed as he noticed I was awake. A strained smile formed on his features as he came to the side of my bed. "H-How are you feeling?" he asked, as he placed the steaming cup on the table beside my bed, and handed the one with the lid to me. "I... I know you like hot chocolate, so I got you one down at the reception room the nurse showed me. I got lots of milk in it so it won't burn your tongue, and it's decaf, so you won't have an energy boost or anything... Do you... remember hot chocolate, Lovi?"

"Yes I remember hot chocolate, bastardo!" I frowned, snatching the cup from his hands. I saw the hurt look taking up residence on his face though, and I cleared my throat before adding, in a kinder tone, "It... seems like I'm familiar with everything here already, even though I don't remember it. I knew what you had in your cup just from the smell- coffee. I-I guess it's just some sort of cognizant memory that got affected. I don't remember any of my history, or anything in my personal life."

_Well,_ I realized as I said it, _that seemed about right. I should be scandalized or confused by everything in this room yet I'm not. But... I don't remember Spain in this time period. I don't remember my people. I don't remember where Feliciano is, and I don't know if we're free from the piano bastard._

It made me really, really nervous. I'm a country -okay,_ half_ a country- I remember everything. This is new and disconcerting and frightening and...

He looked confused for a moment, until a few seconds passed with his lips pressed together deep in thought, and then he seemed to have caught up. "Ah, that's..." he started.

"Tell me what happened, please?" I blurted out, almost dropping the cup, my hands were shaking so much. My breathing had sped up without my even noticing it, and I had to repress the urge to hug him and cry into his chest like the scared little colony I used to be.

"I..." he started, looking at me oddly, with something like indecision on his features. "I don't even know where to start..."

"Start in 1861," I begged, placing the cup on the table beside the bed so it wouldn't actually spill all over me. "Start when that dipshit Austria took me from you! I-I fought him, I remember that, but what happened next? Did Feliciano and I do it? What's happened in Italy? In the world? Spain, I... I need to know, I..."

"You... You really don't remember anything, do you?" he asked, giving me a pained, but curious glance up and down. "Oh, Lovi... You must be so upset by all of this... a-are you okay, or... do you need a hug from... B-Boss Spain?"

"Bastard, I-I'm not a colony anymore," I murmured, locking my eyes on the steam rising from his cup of coffee to avoid looking at him. "I don't need to be c-coddled..."

"Lovi, you're always so bad at hiding your emotions," Spain muttered through a teary smile. "You must be so scared... not knowing what's going on in the world, in your country, with yourself..."

I kept looking away stubbornly, but with each passing second, what he said sunk deeper in.

W-Well, he was right, naturally. I was terrified. And upset, and I felt so alone. Last thing I knew I _had_ been alone. With Feliciano that is. But who knew where Feliciano was now? I _hate_ being alone. You would think Spain would know this by now. And I... I really wanted a hug right **now.**

I think I startled both of us by leaning forward and burying my face in his chest, letting the tears drip down my face and soil his shirt. After an awkward moment he wrapped his arms around me, and I snuggled closer, trying in vain to muffle the ungainly sounds issuing from my mouth.

B-But at this point, I really didn't care about keeping up appearances.

Just being wrapped in Spain's arms was enough to calm me down a bit; having the familiar feeling of Spain, his warmth, his smell. All of that had stayed the same, so it would seem.

"L-Lovi, Mio Dio," he said softly. "No llores, mi tomate... Mi tesoro precioso..." His voice was still choked up with tears, and I buried my face deeper in his chest and allowed him to rub my back in soothing circles.

_Lovi, my God, don't cry, my tomato... my precious treasure..._

I... I guess I had learned Spanish somewhere along the way too. I knew a bit before, but I still wouldn't have known all those words unless I had been taught.

I... I guess Spain helped me with that too.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...**

I guess it was an hour or so later that I ran out of tears, and Spain and I sat in a comfortable silence drinking our -now cold- beverages. Several doctors/nurses stopped in while we sat, and asked me questions to try and gauge my memory loss, but I guess they didn't notice how tired I looked.

Because... I was. I don't know what I'd been doing before the accident, but that plus whatever they'd done to me in surgery -for a broken rib, I think- had drained me of whatever vigor I might have had at this time of night on a normal day. It was only 6:45 in the evening, but it might as well have been midnight for how I felt.

"Si, muchas gracias Señores, voy a hablar con ustedes más tarde..." Spain said, before shutting the door to my room on the retreating doctors/nurses with a click.

"Th-Thanks, tomato bastard," I said, yawning in the middle of the thanks.

"Of course, Lovi," Spain smiled tiredly.

I snuggled deeper into the pile of pillows behind me, brought by the nurse from before, and got into a comfortable position. I closed my eyes, and had to fight with myself to open them again, in a faint attempt to stay awake longer than Spain. My eyes locked with Spain's when I opened them, and I murmured another thanks.

"You don't have to thank me, Lovi," he smiled, mussing with his hair while he sat back in the armchair opposite my bed. "I couldn't possibly be anywhere else, mi amor."

"_Amor?_" I asked, my eyes suddenly not in any danger at all of closing on me. A shock of some kind of stomach-twisting emotion ran up my spine, and I gazed at the Spaniard intently, waiting for a response.

It took a moment for his brain to process the question, and then his eyes flickered open, his expression half-confusion, half-pained grimace. His sparkling green eyes slanted down to stare at his pant leg, before he glanced sheepishly back up at me. "Ah, Lovi..." he began slowly, sitting up and rubbing at his nose nervously.

"What... were we just before the crash?" I asked carefully.

"W-We..." he started, before biting his bottom lip, and looking down again. There was a long pause before he spoke again, but I didn't rush him since I thought I knew the answer anyway. Finally, he said, "We were in a _relationship,_ Lovi. We... We've been dating for a year. Since 2012. It's 2013 now."

I rolled that idea around in my head for a few minutes, while toying with the sheets on my bed. I had been dating Spain. He... He wouldn't lie to me about something like this, and I knew he really cared about me. I guess now it was just... a_ different_ kind of caring.

I suppose the bastard had done_ something_ right, because... Well, nobody knew me better than myself, (Except maybe Spain...) and I knew damn straight I'd never let him_ that_ close to me unless I loved him a _lot_ back.

"Are... _you_ okay?" I asked hesitantly, looking up from the covers I was currently fiddling with. "I-I mean, I can't even remember the car accident, or our relationship... The only thing I feel at all right now is angry with that piano bastard for taking me from you. I know that was... just as hard on you as it was on me."

"Don't worry about me, Lovi," he said with a weak sort of smile. "I've long since gotten over losing you the first time, because I have... _had_ you now."

I frowned, but decided not to push the topic. It was evident to even me, the sour, self-centered and socially oblivious ass-hole that Spain was a lot more upset than he let on. I'd lived with him for long enough; if I didn't know, I don't know how I would have survived living as a colony in that fucking _bipolar_ household.

"What year is it again?" I asked, and Spain opened his eyes again. "Or, my head hurts, how old is Italy?"

"Uh... No sé," he said apologetically, grinning faintly at me. "You know how I am at math, Lovi. But I know in human years you're 23~!"

2013 minus 1861... uh...

...

Wait for it...

...take out the 1, put in a 10...

Then that's 9...

...carries over...

152.

I can't remember all 152 years of my country's history... and the equivalent of 5 years of my body's life. Which is equivalent to 152 years of my social life, and apparently 151 while not dating Spain, and 1 _while_ dating Spain.

...Well, fuck, _this_ was confusing.

"My head hurts," I reiterated, pressing a palm to my forehead to try and dull the ache that was throbbing just beneath the skin. "I... I think I just want to sleep. Who knows, maybe I'll just remember this all by the time I wake up."

"Maybe," Spain agreed, but even through closed eyes, I could hear that whatever smile he was trying to pull off, he wasn't as optimistic.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...**

**A/N: **Ugh, my God, you guys... I am so sorry this is **SO** short. XD This chapter and the last one both under 4,000 words. How pitiful. The portions I've already written are longer than this! But... whatever. You know what? I've seen EXCELLENT smut scenes written in 2,000 words, and mine is 2,630 something. Perfect enough. Besides, xD I don't think you all can complain ENOUGH to make me make this longer. My rambly A/N's make this look long enough.  
By the way... I take Spanish class, but if my Spanish is wrong, tell me so, okay? I speak English first, so... yeah. I'll put translations in the bottom though! You SHOULD already know that:

_Sí_ - yes

_Hola_ - hello

_Adios_ - goodbye

_Señor_ - Mr.

And then there's this...:

_Si, muchas gracias Señores, voy a hablar con ustedes más tarde..._ - Yes, thank you so much Mr.s _(awkward, but I wasn't sure how to put that- Misters, I guess)_ I will talk to you all more later...

_Fratello_ (Didn't use this, but I probably will later) - brother: Italian

_Fratellino_ (Didn't use this, but I probably will later) - little brother: Italian

Edit: 6/28/12, Fixed up a good portion of the Italian Independence history in this chapter, and just a few grammar errors.


	3. Chapter 3 10

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia still doesn't belong to me. (Darn, wishes don't come true after all.)

**A/N:** Hey again~! Yeah... not really much to say. Read this. xD

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

"Lovi~! Fratello, are you okay~? Ve, I was so worried~! You look like_ shit,_ fratello~! What did you do, get hit by_ two_ cars~? Oh but big brother Spain is here, so it's _alllllllllright_, si~? Lovi, ve, what's that thing on your forehead~? Can I **poke** it~?"

I was woken up by these very peppy, very _Italian_, and very **_loud_** eight sentences, at exactly _9:00_ in the fucking morning. Well, according to the alarm clock on my bedside table. But who knew if that was right? I don't trust anything in a public area as a general rule. Anyway, I couldn't remember waking up this early since I lived with Antonio, so I just sort of shifted and groaned, and hoped that if I answered him he'd go away.

"Feliciano. I'm fine... that's good, you **should** have been worried about me, dammit... thank you, Feli you _imbecile_... Apparently it was one car and a _bus,_ if you have to know... that_ doesn't_ fix everything and you **know** it you attention-hogging dipshit, and **NO DO _NOT_ TOUCH MY FOREHEAD!**"

Oh yeah.

_One_ breath.

Be jealous, bitches.

Yeah, I'm used to this shit. Last thing I remember with Feliciano, we'd been living together for a few months while on our own for the first time. You know, after beginning to rebel against the piano bastard. This quickly became a daily occurance, so I didn't miss a single fucking _syllable_ while spewing out the shit that would _hopefully_ make my **oblivious** fratellino get the _fuck_ out of my room.

Except... it was a bit different from what I was used to... Normally he's complaining that there's no hot water... and he can't wash the pasta pots... Because, you know... No running hot or cold water. (Which is **INFURIATING** to understand the mechanics of, let me tell you -I can understand those mechanics now, you fuckers- especially when I can't remember anything** IMPORTANT** of the last_ 152 years_ of my life!)

"You don't sound like you've forgotten very much, fratello," Feliciano muttered, sounding upset.

"It's not people or things I've forgotten... the doctors said the things I'm used to doing, repetitive memory or something, stays with me while the rest is all foggy. I remember how to do everything but I don't remember specific parts of my life... day to day things, important memories... and I can't remember a thing since we got our independence in 18... I mean, when we were 18." I grumbled, still not having even opened my eyes yet.

Christ, I should get some kind of reward for being this patient with my brother. Normally I just yell at him. Maybe over the last 152 years I learned to deal with it... _finally_. About fucking time. I just hope it keeps working. I could use some more patience.

A curious scent wafted over to me then though, as the door opened, and I heard someone else step inside my room. I mean, there was Feliciano who always smelled Italian, and like cooking pasta, but this was... different. It smelled like sausage... sausage, and...

..._potatoes_.

**GASP.**

"**POTATO BASTARD!**" I roared, sitting bolt upright and probably ripping a few stitches in the process, swivelling to face the door, my eyes flying open and my arm reaching out to point dramatically in his direction.

Germany stood there, his blue mother-fucking potato sucker eyes open wide, and his mouth half open as he watched me rather stupidly. Then he closed his mouth and raised an eyebrow at me.

...or maybe that was boredom. Well, fuck you all, I'd like to_ think_ it was stupidity! Give me my god-damned moment! I fucking deserve it! I was hit by a _car!_ And a _bus!_

"Ve, fratello, you remembered?" Feliciano asked, sitting upright, staring at me with his amber eyes actually wide open for once.

"N-No," I said, frowning as I dropped my arm and looked down at it, stupefied. "I think that was a reflex. That was weird..."

Yes... very weird. I mean, I don't know a lot about Germany -since my memory is all fucked up and all- and the only thing that's a little off about him is the uncanny resemblance to another sick fuck I think I knew once...

Something with an H...

Hunga_rom_akia...

_Ho_me_ly_ Russi_an_ _Empire_...

Something like that.

Huh, can't remember. Oh well.

Germany just harrumphed, before depositing a tray of breakfast on the bedside table, next to where Feliciano had decided to make himself at home on the edge of my bed. I glared at the tray -it was a really shitty shade of gray and green by the way, it rather reminded me of barf- like it was an offering from Satan himself (which it **WAS,** dammit, Germany is Satan!) ... (What the _flying fuck_ is with all this Germany-bashing?) before watching Feliciano take an orange from on top of a bowl of cereal, and begin to peel it.

It made me remember something probably only a few weeks before the bounds of my memories expired; when Feliciano and I were still touring around Italy to see how our people were doing. I think we stopped in a field for a night, and there were oranges growing there by the fucking _thousands_. Feliciano said he hadn't ever had one of them before, -they didn't grow in Austria, suck **THAT** piano bastard!- so I let him try one.

Only... I was expecting to hand him an orange and let him enjoy it. I was not expecting him to eat it and develop red blotches all over his body, and get a high fever to the point where I had to bathe him in a nearby lake to cool him down enough to let him heal without being in the sun.

He didn't eat oranges anymore after that.

(Well, I mean, as far as I knew... oh shut up, okay? I_ do_ know what I'm talking about, contrary to popular belief.)

It was then that my big-brother urges started to kick in, and I swatted the orange from his hand, gripping his wrist tightly in my own while I threw the orange across the room and _accidentally_ hit Germany in the back of the head.

(It... It really was an accident this time... even if I _do_ have unexplainable urges to throw shit at this country.)

"What the fuck, Feliciano!" I exclaimed, rubbing at his fingers with my own to try and get the orange pores or cells or w_hatever the fuck oranges shed_ off his fingers. "You're allergic to oranges! What are you..."

"Not... Not anymore, fratello," he smiled awkwardly, removing his hand from mine and patting it consolingly.

A stifling, shitty sort of silence descended around the room as I looked at Feliciano's hands, uncomprehending, until Spain let out a rather disturbing (Yes, even for Spain,) sort of sound, and I leaned past Feli to look at him.

"Lovi, how cute~!" he cooed, his face lit up like the freaking sun, white teeth flashing and his emeraldine eyes sparkling and the whole fucking 10 yards. "You still care so much about your brother~! How adorable~!"

"Wha- Get the fuck off me!" I spluttered, using my good arm to try and distance his head from my face. The scent of his hair was still the same, I realized then. A bit less sweaty, but it was still that sunny, earthy... tomato-y sort of smell.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

_I hesitated before Antonio's door, trying to decide if I wanted to go in or not after all. I mean, I had driven here from _Rome_ after all, but... _

_I took a deep breath while trying to contemplate what to do, and the familiar scent of Spain (the country _and_ the personification) filled my lungs. He always smelled like this, didn't he?_

_There was the scent of fresh soil above everything, and then the faint but fresh scent tomatoes gave off. There was just a hint of pepper, and perhaps a little garlic. But this smell had been my home, growing up- the first real home I ever had. It held nice memories, and Antonio was a part of most of them._

_My mind made up, I raised a fist and banged on the front door three times, just enough to let him know I was there, but not enough to wake him up if he was taking a siesta. I gnawed on my bottom lip, trying to keep my feet planted on the doorstep. If I hadn't they might have just carried me right over to my car and driven off again. _

_Dammit, Antonio. I mean, do you have any idea how _hard_ it is to fight with yourself? It's hard for _me!_ And fucking confusing to boot. My common sense just wouldn't shut the fuck up- it wanted me to get in the car and drive as fast as fucking possible away from there. But the rest of me was pushing myself to stay._

_Only a few seconds after I'd knocked, the door opened inwards quickly, and Antonio's bright features made themselves visible to me. They lit up even more when he seemed to register it was me on his doorstep, and I looked down sheepishly._

_"Lovi! You came~! Are you here to pick tomatoes with Boss Spain~?" Antonio said, from just inside the frame of his front door._

_"Bastard, why else would I come?" I scoffed, shuffling my feet. I stared down at my Armani slacks, and realized I was a complete dipshit for wearing them- I was picking tomatoes, what the fuck was I doing wearing Armani? This shit was expensive!_

_I guess Antonio noticed as well, because he looked down, and then grinned. "Do you want to borrow a pair of pants, Lovi?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame._

_I blushed but nodded, stepping into his house after a moment's hesitation. He went down the hallway to retrieve an extra pair of pants, and I took a minute to soak in the familiar surroundings. The same stone flooring from when I was little was still there, and the same -old as fuck- 10 rugs covered places on that floor, placed strategically by Antonio/Belgium/the Netherlands/myself._

_For example, the oriental one with the green edging right in front of the couch had been placed by the Netherlands after he accidentally split Portugal's head open, and hadn't told Antonio since he'd been out on some conquest or other anyway._

_The red one in front of the coat closet was Belgium, trying some sort of witch doctor's remedy for the plague on Antonio. Only, I'd smacked the bowl out of her hands when she told me what it was, and I smeared it into the floor to make a point. Yeah, I'd been a really religious little shit at that point, and I told her God would heal Antonio, not Satan._

_The purple one that sort of spiraled inwards in front of the television set was put there by me, after an incident involving a killer squirrel we shall _never_ speak of. Um... it wasn't my fault, though. The Netherlands let it in to see if it would destroy Antonio's bedroom, and I had to get it out because I thought Antonio would blame it on me. I... sort of accidentally killed it._

_"Here you go, Lovi," Antonio said cheerfully, tossing a bundle of denim fabric at me._  
_I blinked, startled, before reflexively catching the jeans, and glaring at Antonio. "Bastard, don't sneak up on me!" I admonished him._

_"Mmn, whatever you say Lovi," he chuckled, before pulling me into a hug as I started for the bathroom to change. "I'll be out in the fields when you're ready, okay?"_

_I blushed, but nodded, before tugging gently out of his grip and heading for the bathroom again._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain?**

I opened my eyes, and just stared at Feliciano's face for a moment, uncomprehending.

I... I don't even...

Holy Shit, that was confusing.

Did I... Did I just...?

"Fratello, are you okay? You look _really_ pale, ve," Feli's voice finally broke through my thoughts, and I blinked a few times, looking around to regain my bearings.

"Huh?" Spain said, pulling back from the hug now, and eyeing me worriedly. "Is everything okay, Lovi?" he asked, leaning forward to feel my forehead.

"Yeah, I..." I began, before halting.

That... That had been a memory, right? Because there certainly hadn't been Armani clothing in 1861. So that made this... after 1861. Ergo in that annoying 150-year span I didn't remember anything from. Until now. Maybe?

"I think I just remembered something,"

Feliciano gasped, and even Germany looked mildly startled. Spain sucked in a breath, before letting out a nervous, breathy chuckle, and saying quickly, "Wh-What was it, Lovi?"

"I went to your house to pick tomatoes..." I said carefully, mulling over the details of the memory once more. "And I remember I didn't want to go in, but the smell -I smelled it on your hair, that's what triggered it I guess- reminded me of when I was a colony and I went in anyway."

"Do you know when this event occurred?" Germany asked, tilting his head curiously.

"No," I frowned. "I was wearing Armani though, so I guess it was recent. I had to borrow a pair of Spain's jeans because I didn't want to get my pants dirty."

"Oh, I remember that day!" Spain gasped, a wide grin forming as he spoke. "It was only a few years ago, Lovi! You showed up in work clothes and I leant you a pair of my pants so yours wouldn't get messed up. Only they were too big, so they kept falling down, and you insisted I give you my belt to keep them up. Only then my pants fell down, and you gave it back and just wore one of my button-downs so it would cover when the pants slid down a bit!

"Sí, sí... it was a few years ago now, I guess. Maybe 2005 or so?" he continued. "You used to come over all the time and pretend you hadn't really meant to, but I always knew you did want to! Why else would you have come all the way from Rome in Armani clothing unless you wanted to see me? I mean the Armani part isn't really relevant, but you didn't change or anything... for all I know you just came right from work that day! Oh, we had so much fun, Lovi~!"

"I don't remember all that," I sighed, slumping back into the pillows behind me. "Just you getting them for me and me leaving to change- while you were gone I remember I was thinking about all the rugs on your floor and why they were all there."

"Oh yeah, I always wondered why there were more rugs there every time I came back..." Spain said thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling as though it could give him an answer.

"Ahh, no, that's okay!" I said quickly, remembering the embarrassment from the squirrel episode full tilt. "They're... _magic,_ Spain! Don't worry about what's _under_ them, ah... there's no blood stains, why would there be blood stains?"

Spain eyed me curiously, but shook his head, and let the same beaming smile reform. "Well, no matter. You remembered something~! That's so good, Lovi~!"

"Yeah..." I agreed weakly. "I guess."

Personally, I was still mulling over how the fuck that whole remembering thing worked out. Because that whole little scene seemed like I was someone observing myself from inside me. And that's just _mind-fucking_.

Shut up, I know what I'm saying. You... wouldn't get it until you experienced it. It's probably how an author feels when writing a freaking book, because they're writing from a character's perspective and imagining everything that's happening to them, but they know they're not that character. It's like that other... _version_ of me was foreign... to myself.

Which just annoys the fuck out of me, because how can I describe this without sounding like I belong in a mental hospital?

...

I mean, I probably do, at **this** point, but...

Let's... let's _not_ go there.

N-Not now. I'm rattled enough as it is with the whole amnesia thing.

Well... and the_ Spain_ thing.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...**

**A/N: **Yeah... yeah, I know it was short this time, but I had a_ hard_ time finishing this one. Finals are in a week. And I'm supposed to get my learner's permit tomorrow... ngh. _Don't_ want to drive. Nope.

Anyway. The memory was fun to write, but ending it from there was not. And sorry if you don't like Feliciano, lol, but I dunno, I just see him as a bit of an annoying shit who doesn't quite think about his brother enough. You know, that episode with Romano and the moustache, when he asks Feliciano to say nice things about him like he says about Germany, and Feliciano's just like, "Uh..." And then the whole "I HATE YOU SO MUCH!" See, I found that upsetting, not funny xP. So I based my Feli kinda on that. He has his good moments, but he's not all "Oh I love everyone rainbows shits and sparkles ve~!"

Edit: 6/28/12, fixed Italian independence history, some grammar errors.


	4. Chapter 4 18

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia? Nope, still not mine. It belongs to that guy with the H name I can't spell for the life of me. Hooray for lazy fanfiction writers who don't look up the name of authors!

**EDIT: **_OH MY GOD, I AM SO SORRY. _I checked my email this morning and saw an annonymous reviewer had commented on here that I'd gotten the Italian independence history wrong! Ahh! I am SO sorry! I tried so hard to research this, really I did, but it was SO confusing! There were like 15 different divisions that were and weren't Italian, and my brain hurt. BUT! Now that I KNOW that Italy went to Austria before fighting to gain independence, I can fix this! Definitely! So! I went back through all four chapters and fixed that up. **THANK YOU,** Annonymous reviewer!

**A/N:** Here I am~! Sorry ahaha this kinda took forever to get out. (And is so damn _short_! Shit! I need to write more!) I had about the first half typed up for a week but I just couldn't finish it. Did that today, will move to better stuff ASAP. The next bit should be easier to write, anyway. Well, enjoy! I'll ramble some more at the end of this chapter, don't worry.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

So... not long after my memory with the rugs in Spain's house, he went back to sleep, and Germany somehow convinced my brother to give me a break and go pester the hospital chefs about their God-awful quality of pasta.

I pitied those poor chefs.

Well anyway. I finally had a bit of thinking time to myself, so... well, I took it.

And I mean, I started just thinking about _everything_, trying to remember what the last thing I can remember was, but I've got everything up until a bit into me and Feliciano's fight for independence from that piano-playing dipshit Austria. He had taken me away from Spain, and when I reunited with Feli, I brainwashed my stupid brother into helping me rebel against the piano bastard. Then I've got a few memories of us fighting for independence in Italy... and after that it's all a blank. Then I'm here. And... then I looked at Spain again, and my entire thought process went right down the drain.

Complete with the mental "swoosh" sound a toilet makes when it flushes.

_Swoosh_.

Spain looked so... different. I mean, he didn't, not really... ah, he probably looked exactly the same to any normal person, but... to me he did. Look different, I mean.

I don't know what it was, but... there was something decidedly not the same about his appearance.

He grew his hair out just a bit. And stopped brushing it so much, I can see. Or maybe that's just because he's in the hospital right now. Either way, I was used to him keeping it neater than it looked today. And I guess it sort of lightened a shade?

But I know it does that in the summer time. It's probably summer. The sunlight brings out his like, honey-ish colored highlights.

N-Not a lot of people know those are there, but I always noticed them in the summer time when I was a colony. 'Cause I have sort of the same ones, only mine are red. Maybe Belgium and the Netherlands and all of Spain's other shit-headed colonies didn't notice them, but... I did.

Maybe that's one of the reasons why I liked summer so much when I was little. Spain's hair would practically glitter when he was working in the tomato fields.

I blinked, and took another look at Spain. Shit, I almost sorta wish I could see his eyes. They're all... emerald and bright, and usually so happy... I uh... haven't seen his eyes happy in what feels like a few years, to me. What with the war with Austria, then losing me to Austria, and here, my memory loss. Maybe he smiled before I lost my memory. But... I can't remember, so I don't know.

_Swoosh_.

Damn, did he get a little less muscly or is it me? I think back in the 1860s he looked a bit stronger than this. Is it my fault? For leaving him? Dio, I can't stand not knowing my own history. Not knowing _his_ history.

I mean... this is mind-fucking.

Clearly I got my independence from Austria, but did I keep it? Did Spain fight _with_ me? Or did he fight for me? Did I have to fight back?

And what about Feliciano? Did he get hurt? Did someone else take us briefly before we became our own nation again? And why didn't I recombine with Feliciano if we did get our independence from Austria? Are we two separate Italies as nations?

Spain shifted positions in the chair, probably trying to get more comfortable. His face turned a bit further in my direction, and I saw that there was a nasty-looking grimace on his face. Crap, what kind of fucked up shit was he dreaming about now? I mean, I know before I left he still used to dream about what England did to him after the Spanish Armada lost, but that was over 150 years ago! I mean... fuck, he can't _still_ dream about that, can he?

_Swoosh_.

I didn't know what to do. I mean, I could probably barely walk as it was, but if for some reason I could, should I wake him up? Should I just... leave him?

I mean, maybe we had a fight or something.

Maybe... maybe when we were dating he'd told me he didn't like me to wake him up when he was sleeping?

Maybe he'd like, catch my wrist and twist my arm back or something.

I... I don't know what he'd do, because I can't remember his habits. I've got a gut feeling that waking him up would be a bad idea.

At the same time... we _were_ in a relationship, right?

If it had already been a year, wouldn't I have learned this shit by now?

Shouldn't it fall under that motion memory or whatever-the-fuck-it-is category?

Why was I driving without Spain anyway?

And if it had seriously taken him as long as it had to get here from wherever he had been, where did he live now?

The nurse mentioned him being "out"... out venting, out shopping, out walking, what?

Was I mad at him, and I drove off in a temper?

Was he mad at me, and did I go out after him after a while?

And where the fuck did he live?

Did he still have the big Spanish mansion I remembered from when I was a colony?

And that one recent memory, for that matter... Maybe we moved into a new house together.

God, the whole concept of Spain not living in the same house was mind-rape.

And the concept of me living with Spain in a relationship was even more so.

What... what brought about our getting together?

I mean, I'm not saying I didn't have a colony-crush on Spain for at least the years when I was a teenager in human age, because I totally _did_, but I never knew _he_ thought of _me_ that way too.

Let's be honest with ourselves, here. Spain is just a bit _too_ touchy-feely with just about everyone. That also includes small children such as my colony-self. But as I grew up, I mean, it was annoying I guess, but I understood that it wasn't sexual. Not from Spain, of all people. The French fuck-face, certainly, but Spain was just a well-meaning oblivious idiot.

I just complained about it because that's what I was used to. You touch me, you get head-butted. That's some fucking amazing logic right there. I think a lot of it had to do with how my brother and I got passed around so much when we were really little. I didn't trust anyone to touch me because at that point touching me in any way -say, something like hugging me- made me automatically conclude you were going to pick my tiny ass up and claim me as your colony.

But after Spain had me, and I got used to him, I guess I just sort of accepted the hugs and head pats and general contact with less... fear. It was nice, I suppose. But you know, I had a reputation to keep up, so I had to complain. (My fucking Italian pride. It'll kill me one day.)

And that was me, rambling about my childhood aversion to contact.

Ngh, where was I...?

...

Shit, right!

Spain and I.

How that... happened.

Came about.

Occurred.

Began.

Yeah, I, uh... I should probably ask him about that.

Later.

Because he's sleeping.

And it looks really fucking cute.

...

_SHIT!_

You _didn't_ see that.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

So I'm not really sure how long it took, since I was still just staring at Spain, but eventually a doctor came in. She had a really flat chest. And red hair, and green librarian-glasses. And did I mention a _really_ flat chest? Because it was flat. Really. And there might have been a white lab coat. But after observing she had no chest, I went back to observing Spain's breathing. It was fucking interesting, dammit. (God damn, what shit do they have me on? I feel _drunk_ or something!)

"Sr. Vargas?" she asked, glancing down at a clipboard nestled in her arms, and adjusting her glasses.

"Yeah," I said, examining her again.

Wow, she looked young. I mean, holy _shit_. I wasn't surprised by it either. I mean, I just... _felt_ used to having young, female doctors. But my memory wasn't used to it. Not at all. This was sort of like a slap to the face with a cold, dead fish or something. A cold dead, GERMAN fish! Because that makes it _twice_ the suckishness!

...and _again_ with the German-bashing? I _really_ want to remember whatever the fuck brought all this about.

"Are you... feeling any better?" she inquired, shifting awkwardly to her other foot.

I just stared up at her, my mouth sort of hanging open a bit. Did I _feel_ better?

I got hit by a fucking car and rammed into a bus, I would assume I feel better now than I did when I got hit, yes.

But I do believe I ripped those stitches. They kinda hurt.

And... I remembered something from that blank period, so am I supposed to _tell_ her that?

And how about the boyfriend I don't remember dating! Who used to also be my shitloads-older-than-me father-figure! (That didn't make sense, did it?)

Shit, too much to think about at once! _Mio Dio_, what kind of shit was running through my system right now? Did they just change something? Because I feel high!

She seemed to get my temporary confusion, and offered a nervous smile, before adding, "We can start simple. How is your body?"

"I... better, I think," I shrugged, but winced as the action tugged at the stitches in my midsection. "I think I pulled out a few stitches by accident though."

Her smile fell just a bit, and I could see her eyebrows twitching, signifying that she was seriously about to frown, but I guess she kept it back. She just sighed, hanging the clipboard on some kind of hook on the wall next to the door, and she came over to my side.

I pulled the thin blanket up to my stomach to cover certain parts of my body as she pulled the weird paper dress thing up my chest. It did indeed look like I'd ripped the stitches out, and she sighed again. "Alright, we'll have to get those redone. I can do that tonight. Okay?"

I just nodded sheepishly, feeling a little guilty for messing with what she'd just fixed up. By eh, no use crying over spilt milk, right? Crushed tomatoes are another thing _entirely_, but... Stitches don't equal tomatoes, do they? Fuck, I have to look that up. There's one of those equival-ator thingies somewhere online, right?

"And how about your mental health, Sr. Vargas?" she continued, taking her clipboard back off the wall hook and pulling a pen out of her pocket. "How is that all... working out?"

"I remember everything until I turned 18," I huffed, already used to telling the doctors this. Every freaking one of them asks me anyway. "And then just the habitual stuff. I did remember one thing from just a couple of years ago, just a really small thing, but I guess it's something."

"Oh, really?" she asked, looking up at me with a new curiosity. "Do you want to tell me what this memory was about?"

"Che, it was really stupid, it was just me remembering visiting my... _Father's_ house to pick tomatoes, but I was wearing Armani so he went to get me a change of clothes. I was looking around at all these carpets he had covering stains on the floor and remembering how all the stains got there."

"You might think it's stupid now, Sr. Vargas, but isn't it good to have at least something to hold on to to fill the blank space?" she hummed, pushing her glasses up on her nose. "This is a very good sign, that you're remembering things already. There's a very high chance you'll make at least a partial memory recovery."

"Partial?" I demanded, the frown already set deep into my features. "Why only partial? I knew a man who got shot in the face and lost all his memory, and remembered everything when his wife kissed him!"

"Oh," she said, blinking as though taken aback. "Well... that's a rather miraculous recovery. But every case is different, Sr. Vargas. I can't promise you'll gain any memories back at all. The brain is the most mysterious part of the human body, and since so many things can go wrong, there are innumerable possibilities that follow each injury."

I didn't know what to say to that.

I might never get my memory back?

Yeah, okay, I'm just supposed to _thank_ the bitch for bringing every fucking hope of regaining my memory crashing down?

But... What about Spain and I? I need to know how this happened, so I can at least fix it.

And... at least a small part of me wants my memories to return... so I can... I want to... remember and experience what it's like to be Spain's l-lover.

"Well... when do I get to leave?" I muttered after a long pause.

"I can't predict that either, Sr. Vargas," she said calmly, pasting that God-awful smile back onto her face. "But seeing as Mr. Carriedo is here, if you're comfortable, we can release you into his custody by tomorrow. You'll just have to come back once a week for a while so we can monitor your progress."

"I... I'd get to go home with Antonio?" I asked quietly, my eyes instantly locking onto his prone form in the chair.

"Yes, just as soon as I can clear you as stable enough. And if you're sure it won't be too overwhe-"

"No, I remember his house..." I murmured, my heart beating abnormally quickly in my chest. I realized then that they still thought I couldn't remember Antonio, and I hastily added, "I used to go over his house a lot when we were little. We've known each other for years. I'm just not used to _dating_ him."

"Ah," she nodded, but I could see the doubt flickering in her eyes. "Well if that's all, I'll be seeing you later tonight, Sr. Vargas," she said crisply, before slipping out into the hallway.

...fuck, throwing off curious humans is hard enough with my memory intact, and now I've got to do it with 150 fucking years of my history missing? This lie about Spain being a friend is going to get _really_ confusing _really_ fast.

"_You're 18?_ What a coincidence, ve, my brother got hit by a car and a bus and he can't remember anything since he was 18! Isn't that_ funny?_" my fratellino's obnoxious voice echoed down the hallway, followed by the rapid concerned chatter of female voices.

Do I even _want_ to know where Germany went? Why isn't he stalking Feliciano like one of those German Hounds or whatever the fuck they are?

"Ve, he's alright, fratello is _really_ clumsy so he's used to being in the hospital!" he chirps, voice getting even louder as he nears my room.

Fuck you, Feliciano, I am _not_ a klutz!

..._all_ the time.

"Oh, sí, do you want to meet him and Antonio? Sí, fratello is attractive I guess, we're almost twins, so he should be! Oh big brother Toni? He's cute too! Wha- no, he's my... cousin! Sí, that's what Antonio is!"

I facepalm.

This just got a _shitload_ more confusing.

Feliciano is telling people Antonio is our cousin?

Fuck! I don't _do_ incest!

...

It's admittedly a little sketchy we had a relationship going because he used to be like, my father/older brother, but...

It's fucking different with nations, so shut up, _capisce?_

"Right Lovi?" Feliciano asked, as the door slammed open, waking up Spain and making me jump a good five inches off the bed.

Feli's head poked through the door first, and then the rest of him followed as he stepped inside.

There were three giggling Spanish girls behind my fratellino, and one of them only has eyes for Feli, while the other two were looking from me to the groggy Spanish nation and back, like wolves picking which rabbit they'll eat first. All three of them had chestnut colored hair, and while I appreciate a woman with beautiful hair, I did not appreciate the way that hair swished when their heads snapped from side to side when they were eyeballing me. They weren't even pretending to be concerned about the "cute" brother in the hospital bed! They were looking at us all like fucking _prey!_

"_No_, Feliciano," I growled, upset that Spain was woken up just to be eyed like some sort of meal by a bunch of young bitches. "Antonio is not our cousin. And he's gay for _me_, you _cagnas_, so you can kindly piss the _fuck_ off now."

All three of the Spanish girls turned to glare at me, and I glared right back, until the one who'd been eyeing Feli sniffed, and haughtily spun around, dragging her bitch cronies with her back down the hall.

"Fratello, that wasn't very nice!" Feli exclaimed, looking disappointedly after the supposedly 18 year old Spaniards. (They looked more like fucking 16 year olds if you asked me. They should not be flirting with someone as old as Feliciano. I think that's illegal in most places.)

"You could have at least been polite about it! I thought you were always polite to women!" Feliciano continued, his whiny-bitch voice on full power.

"So did I," I frowned, staring out the door after them. "But I didn't like the way they were looking at Spain."

And... I didn't _miss_ the normal idiotic grin making its way back onto Spain's face, that probably both of the overly happy idiots in the room expected me to smack him for, I just... pretended not to notice.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain~**

**A/N:** Ahaha there we go~! Finally finished. And I remember the Rome chapters in Bottoms Up by Sunny Day in February, where Toni's being trailed by Italian bitches, and I just stuck this bit in there, sort of inspired by that. It's scant, I know, I should have gone into a bit more detail, but, eh, Lovi's still not sitting pretty with the fact that he's dating Spain, so that little blurb was just to show he's open to the idea, and that progress can be made! I'd love to hear what you guys think!

**(Closed)**

**Also:** I want your guys' input! I'm gonna stick in one more character, simply because I can. So basically this character is just going to show up in the next chapter for no apparent reason and fuck up Lovi's home-coming-to-Spain's-house-so-shit-it's-more-of-a-home-going,-then,-isn't-it? SO! **Vote** for who _you_ want to show up at Spain's house most:

America, England, America & England (USUK), France, France & Prussia (BTT), Prussia, Prussia WITH Germany (Germancest), America & Canada (Americest), Canada, Canada & Prussia (PruCan), Hungary, OR Austria & Hungary (AusHun/whatever-the-fuck-you-call-these-two)


	5. Chapter 5 2

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia. Not mine. Yup. As usual.

**A/N:** This... this was so much fun to write. I can't even... just... ugh. XD

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

"Cher, you missed our exit."

"Fuck, no one asked you, Frenchie! Let the awesome me drive!"

"Ah, amigos, no need to be so loud -or rude- ...**JODETE, GILBERT!** Ay, that's a mailbox!"

"Hahah, wow, you _suck_ at driving, white haired dude! What the fuck did you do, sniff so much bleach it changed your hair color? I think it fucked up your brain as well if you're hitting mailboxes. Driving's not hard! Let **the hero** drive!"

"Bloody hell Alfred, belt up already! Nobody asked you!"

"Ve, Big Brother Francis, Luddy says I shouldn't let anyone touch me there!"

"_Fuck_, stop molesting my fratellino!"

"Francis, you bloody frog! You better not have been touching Italy Veneziano! I thought you promised we would be going steady from now on?"

"Ah, _mon lapin,_ do not fret! I was -ah- helping little Italy with an_ itch_, that is all!"

"Helping him with an itch my ass, fuck-face! You're in a relationship, aren't you? Keep your fucking hands to yourself! Che cazzo!"

"I'm trying to fucking drive here, you unawesome bastards!"

"_Gilbert Weilschmidt, don't you dare hit that old lady!_"

"Canada?"

"Canadia, bro!"

"Matthieu, fils?"

"Bloody hell, when did you get here, Matthew?"

"But- Birdie, my target practice!"

**\(^.^)/ - (Dammit) Spain!**

I'm going to shock you all, and be positive for a few minutes while I explain some things that have led up to the terrible situation I am enduring right now.

_Yes,_ I can do that _without_ crumbling into a pile of ashes.

...

Shut up, it happens every once in a while, dammit.

So here's my week's worth of a silver lining.

First, I learned after the ginger doctor lady redid my stitches that I'd get to leave in a week's time.

That meant I'd get to leave this public shit-hole and instead reside in the familiar (and honestly, quite missed) private shit-hole that is Spain's house.

_With_ Spain and my brother.

(Oh **fuck**.)

Thankfully at least the macho potato had to fly back to potato-land after an angry sounding call from his boss.

He claims it was about some big peace-making dinner/gala/shit, but everything in that goddamn confusing language sounds angry to me.

Anyway.

I was also extremely happy (read: didn't kick Spain/Feliciano every time they did something stupid) over this entire week because I learned that Spain was indeed still living in that fucking enormous mansion I remembered from what seemed like not so long ago. Familiar territory was always good after having lost your memory.

(Not that this happens all that often to me. At least as far as I know. You know, 'cause I can't fucking REMEMBER anything!)

Ahh, and the memory jokes. Yeah. I've gotten a lot of those over the past week. Which leads me to my next bit of silver lining!

All the Spanish chicks love my accent (read: think it sounds funny) and hang around Spain and I (read: Spain) because they feel bad for me (read: find Spain attractive) and think I look adorable being wheeled around this place like a motherfucking boss (read: think Spain's attractive and must be sensitive for wheeling his annoying-ass friend around this place all the time).

Hmph.

Now that I think about this, I'm thinking the silver lining stopped more around the whole Spain's house bit.

Stupid Spanish whores.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

Well... those were (sort of) the positives of the past week!

...

And now I'm gonna go and fuck up the good impression I just made on you all ("He can be positive! Holy mother-fucking _shit!_") by detailedly describing everything that went **wrong** in the past week.

I got _2 _phone numbers from mildly attractive Spanish women!

_Fucking hooray._

See, even though apparently I'm gay, I still flirt with the ladies because I can and it's the Italian thing to do.

As far as being gay goes... well I think I've known **THAT** for a **LONG** time. But naturally, that wasn't exactly _acceptable_ in 1861. Besides, flirting with women and being Italian is like being _human_ and _breathing_.

Not only do you physically have to do it to survive, it's a natural thing you don't even think about.

And even though it's not a big deal when it happens (because it happens every fucking time I try to do ANYTHING), it pisses me off when people beat me.

Know how many numbers Spain got?

_13._

He got 13 Spanish whores' phone numbers written on him.

Not even on his arm.

No, they wrote the numbers on his jeans.

On the _ass_ of his jeans.

Spain's ass will be the downfall of the world one of these days, I swear to God.

I mean, seriously.

I think even asexuals would fall in love with his ass.

...

Was I just ranting about Spain's ass...?

...

I was, wasn't I.

**WHAT THE LITERAL FUCK-**

...

**THIS_ NEVER_ HAPPENED.**

Uh.

Ahem.

Moving on.

Uh... Feliciano got a temporary job as the hospital's chef. Everyone fucking loves him, as _usual_.

"Oh, but that's so great for Feli," you're probably thinking.

WELL DON'T.

Because you know what that makes **ME**?

I'm now known as "Feliciano's bastard of a brother" to the rude nurses/patients, and "Feli's _touchy_ brother" to the NICE nurses/patients.

...even **SPAIN** tried calling me Feli's _touchy_ brother once.

I kicked him in the balls.

Che, he didn't try that again. Smart bastard. He learns quickly.

In addition to Spain's temporary limp and ruined pair of jeans (I ripped up the ones with the phone numbers on them with my bare hands) he also somehow gained a black eye.

I'd love to tell you it was me who did it, but it wasn't. I was actually the one pressing the ice to his face after it happened.

...

Not because I _cared_ or anything.

I just didn't want people asking him what happened to his face.

...

Okay, we all know I'm a terrible liar by now.

So _maybe_ I did it because I care for Spain.

...

What! I can be nice occasionally.

Oh fuck off.

See, what happened is that bitch from the hallway who'd been eyeing Feliciano came back, and insisted on spending all the time she could physically spend with Spain with him. So when Spain slipped up yesterday and mentioned that _we_ had been dating before my accident, she got her thong in a real twist, complaining about him leading her on or some shit like that.

Chigi, as if I hadn't told the bitch the same thing when I saw her the first time!

So she actually punched Spain, and he was decent about it and didn't hit her back. It really pissed me off 'cause the oblivious bastard didn't even know what he'd done wrong!

I mean, seriously! How the fuck is it _his_ fault that she takes his natural friendliness as flirting?

And so fucking what if he smiles a lot in her general direction? He does that to everyone! Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, the personification of España, is a fucking _smiley_ person, dammit!

If she fucking liked his -and I quote- "_Gorgeous_ brown curls," and "_Adorable_ complexion," so much, maybe she shouldn't have fucked their _natural balance_ up so much by socking him one!

And... sucks to be her right now, (and she better be _hella_ jealous of this lucky bastard RIGHT HERE) because the purpley shit around his beautiful green eye made it look even greener every time he smiled at me when he thanked me for helping him with the ice.

S-Shut up, I know I'm a wussy bastard who thinks about stupid shit like eye colors.

Spain's are somewhere between emerald and jade.

Just so you know.

T-The more you know, right?

**\(^.^)/ - Spain~!**

(No, I'm not done with my fucking story yet. Just wait. We'll get there.)

"So, bastard," I began casually, poking at the pasta in the styrofoam bowl before me with a plastic fork, not yet believing it was completely edible. (Feliciano tried a new sauce on the shit, and even though the other patients seemed to like it, you could never be too safe.) "We get to leave today, right?"

I was sitting at a tiny lunch table in a corner of the bustling hospital cafeteria, with the questionable-as-fuck pasta on a tray which was sitting between Spain and I. The other side was occupied by a simple plate of paella he'd taken instead of the curious tomato/leaf/barf/I-don't-even-**KNOW**-what-mix in a bowl that I'd taken my brother's word for being non-lethal. Curse me and my big-brother instincts.

The same -or at least similar- instincts were telling me I should do more for that shitty bruise on Spain's face. It _really_ sucked now, only a day after the punch, and it was oozing some yellowish shit. Right out of the corner, there was like this pussy shit, I don't even... It was fucking gross, let me tell you.

Or, wait, no, I won't tell you. Not if you just ate/are going to eat soon/have anything in your stomach.

Uh... anyway.

The hospital said they didn't have anything to put on it yet because they were getting a shipment tomorrow.

But... I _didn't_ like the way it looked. All that fucking disturbing-looking pus, and the fact that the rest of his face looked pale in comparison to that... dark blob that seemed to have taken up residence right around that constantly eye-smiling green eye.

Shut up, eye-smiling is so real and you fucking_ know_ it.

"Oh, sí Lovi~!" Spain said, smiling blindingly over our food at me, actually forcing me to blink a few times to regain my vision. "But we have to wait for Francis and Gilbert to pick us up later today, because someone stole my car, and yours was totaled in the crash~!"

"What?" I snapped, as I reached for a napkin and seized his chin, pulling him forward across the table to wipe at some tomato-y shit he'd managed to get all over his face. "Someone stole your car? Where did you leave it, out on the street?"

"Oh, ah, y-yeah," he mumbled, somehow managing to get the word out through my vicious attack on his dirty face. "Well, I wasn-bmdfngk-t really think-ikgksnf-ng about the car wh-eiflhalo-n I was rush-hshuno-ng inside to s-mnph-ee how you were doing, Lovi~! Besides, someone at the desk down there told me all the neighborhood kids had been painting graffiti on it all week anyway. I don't mind, I can always buy a new car~! Maybe they really needed one, sí?"

I frowned at him, scrutinizing his face as I listened to what he was saying about some Spanish brats stealing his car, and simultaneously deciding that speck of tomato next to his lips simply _had_ to come off, _right_ that very moment.

"You," I began, sticking my thumb in my mouth and running my tongue over the pad to make sure it was wet, "Are too damn nice for your own good." I rubbed my thumb across the red spot in his stubble, (he hadn't shaved since the accident, so he had quite the shadow going there,) and making sure it was gone once the patch of skin came up clear on the opposite side of my thumb.

My eyes locked with his then though, and I froze at the intense gaze he was fixing me with.

There was a sort of passion in those green eyes I couldn't remember seeing in years- the kind he'd get when I cleaned something the right way, or found him the perfect tomato in his garden.

It was the kind that sent a shiver down my spine and made my stomach decide it wanted to join the fucking circus as an acrobat, because it had developed a liking to flipping circles in my body.

The kind that made me feel like a pack of fucking moths or something had been let loose in my heart and were hitting the walls, going crazy in there, because this had to have been the fastest I'd ever felt my heart beat.

And it was the kind of feeling that made me long to regain my memories once again, even if only so I could find out just _what_ would happen when I teased Spain just a little more when he got a look like this in his eyes.

Did he snap? Did he drag me off to the nearest bathroom and ravish me in the stall?

Did he promise kinky things later on, and tease me with them the rest of the day until I was hot and bothered beyond reason? Did he wait until we got home to make love to me?

Or did he -for once realizing what mood had been created- just lean forward and kiss me, saying something romantic just afterwards?

...was the space between my face and his decreasing, or was that just me...?

Shit, was I ready for this?

...

Again?

I wasn't so sure. And... and...

Gesu Christo he was close... it definitely wasn't just me.

Did I let him kiss me? Did I stop him?

Oh shit, curse my natural indecisiveness-

"Oh Antoine, _cher,_" a familiar French accented voice called from the entrance to the cafeteria. "I do hope we're not interrupting anything, but Gilbert and I thought we would surprise you by coming early! Isn't that magnificent?"

"Hey, why are you so close to the brat? We aren't interrupting a make-out session, are we? Kesesese!"

"Ohonhonhon!"

It suffices to say I had never been _less_ pleased to see the two idiots than at that exact moment.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

I had displayed my displeasure with their presence in the first way that came to mind- smacking them both between the legs with my crutches.

At the same time.

Che cazzo, was it a fucking _amazing_ hit, too. I should even get like, points for that or something. I _didn't_ fall over, they _did_, and they even both hit the floor cursing at the same time.

Tongue-fucking French and angry-sounding German curses, respectively.

Then of course Spain had to play the nice guy and help his rapists-for-friends up off the floor, and apologize for my behavior.

I just harrumphed (It's a fucking word! Verb: _to harrumph!_) and crutched my way over to Feliciano at the lunch counter, who was waving excitedly to "Big Brother Francis" and "Gil-Gil". I smacked him on the hand with one for waving to those bastards before taking a precarious seat on a stool beside him.

"Ow, Fratello," he complained loudly, rubbing at the quickly-reddening skin with his other hand. "What was that for? I was just waving to our friends!"

"Che palle, Feliciano!" I exclaimed, slamming a hand down on the counter. "They are not our friends! France-Francis will rape you the first chance he gets, and the albino freak would probably do the same! Except... _kinkier!_ And more _German!_"

"But _Fratello!_" he whined, amber eyes pouting up at me as he draped his arms all the way across the counter and tugged at my shirt.

"No ifs, ands, or buts, Feli, and that's final!" I huffed, removing his hands from my shirt with practiced ease. (The little bastard was a _clingy_ shit when he wanted to be!)

"Okay..." Feliciano sniffled, rubbing his nose on his sleeve -ew, and he _cooked_ in this shirt?- and drying his eyes. "Then what am I supposed to do when Francis is smiling scarily at me over your shoulder?"

"This is not the time for hypothetical situations, Feliciano Veneziano Vargas!" I snapped, frowning as he hunkered down behind the counter.

...

And then I felt the _breathing_ on the back of my neck.

I let out a-a _manly as fuck_ scream, thank you very much, and... in the true spirit of a (_manly_) survivor, managed to jump the counter and cower- I mean, defend Feliciano from France's rape face behind it.

Because as... manly as I am, even I have to admit I'm fucking terrified of France on a **GOOD** day.

"Ohonhonhon, Romano, Feliciano, darlings, why are you hiding from Big Brother Francis?" France's voice called out creepily (**OH MY GOD SO SCARY WHAT THE FUCKING HELL**!) from the front of the lunch counter.

"Ja, Italiens, why are you hiding from the awesome me?" Prussia's equally scary (**WHAT THE FUCK WHY IS IT LEGAL TO HAVE A VOICE THAT CREEPY?**) voice agreed, also disturbingly closely behind the counter.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_.

Where in the fucking name of _tomatoes_ is Spain.

"**AMIGOS!**" a different voice boomed out from a little farther than the two fuckfaces' voices.

Oh. Fucking. _Hell_. **_Yes_**.

Shit's about to hit the fan.

Spain's got the pirate voice out.

A little shiver of... _something_ spun it's way down my spine, and curled into a pleasurable little knot right around the base of my stomach. I shifted uncomfortably while Feliciano squealed, upset with Spain's behavior shift, and the other two parts of the Rapist Trio boiled where they stood, stammering apologies and assurances to leave us alone.

_Fuck_ yes, bastards, you better back off when Spain gets serious.

My bastard may be oblivious most of the time, but when he gets real, he gets fucking _real_, dammit.

Fuck, and speaking of real, I'm going to fucking scream if I don't get off this hard floor right now. I have crutches for a _reason_, dammit.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...**

So they all (read: Feliciano and Spain) helped me back up, before we left (read: France dragged Feliciano and Prussia dragged Spain, and my two idiots dragged me in a wheelchair) to go back to Spain's mansion-y-house-y-thing-y-oh-fuck-if-I-know-what-to-call-it.

We got some _sketchy-ass_ looks on our way out of that hospital, let me tell you.

Then again, I suppose we would, huh...?

First went the German albino freak. Germans aren't so common in Spain. Especially not Germans with God-awful manners like him. (Yeah, I'm a hypocrite, I know.) And albinos are even less common. Mainly because they burn like fucking _raisins_ in the Spanish sun, and all of them move to like... Russia and Antarctica and such._ Un-_sunny places. You get the point.

Then there was the French fuckface. Now, French people are common in Spain. In fact, there are a _lot_ of French people who visit Spain quite _frequently_. But none of them are quite so... _French_. Which sounds retarded, I know. But what would you expect from the personification of France? Oh, yeah, and it's also not so common that the French visitors to Spain are able to grope _two_ different people at once while dragging a procession of cursing/laughing/smiling Mediterranean men behind them.

And Feliciano. Oh, my fratellino. I don't know what I'm going to do with that boy. He's been laughing ever since we left the cafeteria. Why? I have no idea. Che palle, you would think he'd been blessed by the_ tomato box fairy_ or something. I don't even _know_ what the fuck goes on in his mind.

And Spain. Don't even get me _started_. He's the only one of us who could pull off normal, being the **SPANISH** personification of **SPAIN** in a **SPANISH** hospital with **SPANIARD** patients and **SPANIARD **employees, but no. Of course Spain can't be normal about this. He had to smile and wink at everyone we passed in the hallways. I think we caused more people to pass out than the latest heatwave did. Well, at least we're in a hospital already, right?

And me.

Well, I just clung to that fucking wheelchair like my life _depended_ on it.

Which it _did_.

Because they were holding the handles backwards, and if I let go, I'd go flying out and probably land on my _face_.

Now, I'm not one for thanking many things (I don't thank God except when I'm at church or I know I did something really wrong, because he_ -and Karma-_ fucking hate me) but I thanked everything red and saucy in the world when we finally got to that parking lot and they led (read: continued to drag) us to the car we would be taking back to Spain's mansion-y-house-y-thing-y-ah-shit-I-_still_-don't-know-what-to-call-it.

...

Now, this would have been more okay with me if we had like, gotten a _limousine_ to drive us back to Spain's place.

But no.

The fucktards had an eight-person van.

A huge, old, white, sketchy eight-person van.

With people inside.

...

WHAT.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

Canada, America and England.

"What, what do _they_ have to do with anything?" you're asking.

They're who was in the van already.

Yeah.

I know because Spain let America try to haul me -still in the wheelchair- into the van, Canada had to catch me when he dropped me to pester the churro guy into making him a hamburger, and England screamed like a little girl when Canada overbalanced and sent me flying onto his lap.

"Bloody fucking hell!" he squealed, scrambling to push me back off of his body and into the wheelchair.

"Che cazzo!" I yelped, as eyebrows succeeded, and I slid off his -holy shit, those brand-less pants are itchy- lap (giving me fucking** PANTS-burn** or something, I swear,) and back toward the wheelchair, which Canada was trying to maneuver out of the way so he could get back in the car.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself to hit the hard concrete ground -maybe we won't be leaving the hospital after all... I wonder how much breaking your tailbone hurts?- when someone caught me, (and I totally **DIDN'T** scream even worse than England) and we both tumbled head-over-heels back onto the concrete.

"Fuck, you British... fucker!" I cried, trying to sit up again, but being stopped by Spain, who I noticed laying on the ground beside me.

Huh, look at that.

So he's a clumsy bastard too.

I thought he had more coordination than that...?

I wonder who caught me.

"Are you bent on sending me back to the hospital, or just bent? Either way, you need new pants, eyebrow bastard." I finished, brushing off my hands.

"Hey! I'll have you know these pants are an _original_-" eyebrow bastard began, only to be cut off by France going up to the car door, and sticking his tongue down the former's throat.

"Iggy, that's _disgusting_, bro, get a room or something! Ahaha!" America's eardrum-bursting voice called from just behind the open driver's door of the van. "Hey, I get to drive, right? I wanna stop at _El McDonald's_ before we go to your place, Spain! They're supposed to have taco burgers at this branch! Hey, Italy Romano, what are you doing on the ground? Haha I knew you were clumsier than your brother!"

"Hello to you too, Amer_idiot_," I growled, accepting Canada's hand to help me up, and gripping the arm of the wheelchair with my other hand.

"Birdie!" Prussia's infuriating German accent trilled, and there was a rush of air before suddenly Canada was gone, and I was falling back towards the ground, the wheelchair sliding out from my grip.

...and that groaning combined with the bang of a person hitting the side of the car meant Prussia just either assaulted Canada, or he _assaulted_ him.

"Shit!" I cursed, before grunting, as I landed on something soft, instead of the hard ground I was -once again- expecting. And then there was a curious grunting sound, and I screamed again.

"Oof! Lovi, be careful!" Spain complained from behind me.

"Yeah,_ Lovi_ be careful," I muttered darkly as Spain helped me up (**AGAIN!**) and helped me prop myself up on my crutches. "_Lovi_ be careful my ass, it's not _me_, this is _you_ all trying to fucking _kill_ me, dammit! I don't have a love affair with the floor, and I'd prefer to keep it that way!"

"A love affair with the floor?" Spain frowned, as I scowled at the albino currently pinning Canada against the truck and stuffing a hand up his shirt, and the Frenchman assaulting a moaning England's neck with kisses. (This mental image is _never_ coming out.) "Do I have something to worry about, Lovi?"

"Ve, Fratello," Feliciano called, sticking his head out of the last door of the van, and brandishing something that looked vaguely reminiscent of a churro. "Look what America bought me! Wasn't that so nice of him?"

"Hahah, it was no trouble, Italy," America laughed. "It fell on the ground anyway! Thirty second rule and all that, right? Hey, the sewer grates here are sanitary, right?"

"Oh, Francis...!"

"G-Gilbert, we're in public- unhh..."

"Hey Lovi, that churro Feliciano is eating really doesn't look very clean..."

"**THE HERO** IS DRIVING!"

"No!"

"Bloody hell, don't let him do it!"

"Oh, non non non you don't, mon ami!"

"The awesome me is driving, thank you very much!"

"...I could drive, but of course none of you can hear me, or care that I'm the only one who actually passed the road test within the last _twenty years_..."

"Romano, you better get in before we leave without you!"

...

Fuck my life.

Just...

Fuck it.

With a rock.

Or a churro.

Or something painful.

Because I don't think it can get any worse.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

I was so, **SOOOOOO** wrong.

You wouldn't think it would be hard to seat eight people in an eight-person van.

You'd be wrong.

So, **SOOOOOO** wrong.

Do you know how fucking long it took to seat everyone in that fucking eight-person van?

Two hours.

Two, fucking (_literally_), miserable, loud hours. And after two, fucking (literally), miserable, loud hours, all eight of us had taken a seat, buckled our seat-belts (it's fucking _important_ dammit!), and got on the road.

Do you wanna know why it took so fucking (_literally_) long?

...

Oh, you don't?

Sucks for you.

I just lived it, you can listen to me rant about it.

First of all, I've said (_literally_) fucking, and some of you are probably wondering why the hell fucking is involved in this at all.

**YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW.**

It involved the trunk, France and England, and Feliciano's dirty churro.

Mio Dio, those noises will never stop haunting me.

Having the two people you're most afraid of fucking in a van trunk behind you is the stuff of nightmares, I tell you.

Oh, but that's only the _half_ of it.

France wasn't allowed to sit next to England because France was still horny, and if they were allowed within four feet of each other, France would have his dirty way with him... _again_.

That meant France had to sit in the back of the van, and England had to ride shotgun, because France, if allowed anywhere near the steering wheel, would attempt to pull over for every attractive human (or mailbox, or dog, or _churro_) he saw.

That also meant Canada had to sit in the middle, to keep the peace between France and England (because if you think they stopped fighting while they were in a relationship, you're wrong) AND because it was the only seat left when we got around to seating him.

Prussia was (unfortunately) allowed to drive, and that kept him from (however willing Canada may seem...) molesting the North American nation. And surprisingly, he and eyebrows got along, so it actually worked.

Ah, but then there was Spain. I made him sit in the middle because he'd be too oblivious to realize France was molesting him (which he does a lot more regularly than you'd think- and to think I've only observed the pair of them for two and a half hours), but Canada would. So I put on my big bad Italian mafia face, and while Spain had a hassle-free ride next to Canada, I stuck myself in the back row of seats with France and my brother.

...and the only reason I didn't save Feliciano from the rapist as well was because America took the other seat next to Canada, and refused to move.

Yeah... At that point, I figured I was closer to bursting an artery than getting America out of that fucking seat, and I gave the fuck up.

And so, we began driving to Spain's mansion-y-house-y-thing-y-oh-fuck-if-I-know-what-to-call-it.

...

I really need to get a new name for this building. Che palle,_ screw it,_ Spain's house. Whatever.

And then we missed an exit, hit a mailbox, and narrowly avoided an old woman in the road.

_Grazie Dio_, Prussia's aim sucks harder than England's eyebrows are bushy.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

**A/N:** Yay, 15 pages of holy-freaking-hell-my-fingers-hurt,-why-oh-_WHY_-do-I-type-these-on-my-phone? This one's a bit longer than the others… unless this A/N is hella lot longer than I thought it was. XD Hope you enjoyed~!

And okay... All the USUK fans are probably kind of upset. But in all fairness, FrUK tied with USUK (when I wrote this)! Even with the anonymous reviews. (Which I can't prove weren't the same person...) But~! To appease you both, I'm thinking of having England break up with France and try it with America for a bit or something. Che palle, I can see the look you're giving me... don't give me that look. I'm trying here, people. Chill, your FrUK and USUK fanservice will be provided. But Spamano comes first. So nyeh. XD

Oh! And also, thank you so VERY much to all of you who reviewed Self Worth, because honestly you made my day. I didn't think anyone was going to read it at all haha and then I get like 5 reviews in an afternoon... ah, I was so happy~! You guys really made me feel like it was okay again~! Ah, I love you all. And as for an update on that situation... (well if you have no idea what's going on, go read Self Worth then this will all make sense,) "Gilbert" called me yesterday afternoon before I got all your reviews and tried to enthuse about the dubbed Crotch Monster episode of Hetalia (which I refuse to be excited over because "Gilbert" told me about it) and inform me they were calling me because they had no one else to text and felt like a hermit. Lovely thing to say to someone with a Canada/Romano/England complex, eh? (I have one of those. It's a real pain in the ass sometimes. Take all the most prominent traits of them _[invisibility/shyness, swearing a lot/having no social skills, being an imaginative derp who loves fantasy]_ and you get me. XD it's really awkward.)

Erhm. Anyway. I know this A/N is already REALLY long, but I have to tell you all, I'm leaving for vacation within this week. (SO EXCITED! EEEEEY!) San Francisco! Ah! I'm an East-Coaster, so I am SO thrilled to be hitting the West! Ah, I'm gonna love it so much. But. Ah, I don't think I'll have a lot of time to write (even on the TWO plane rides there and then two plane rides back,) because I have four books to read and four essays to write along with about ten pages worth of questions to answer for AP classes next year. (GOD, I should have taken an AP last year to prepare me for this.) Anyone read Animal Vegetable Miracle? (OH MY GOD WHY IS IT SO BORING?)

Eh... I really have to stop now. XD just know that your next update might not come until like... the 23rd/24th. Because I have spontaneous bursts of inspiration. But just in case I can get a good chapter (on anything) written (on my phone,) I'll have a blank Story doc on ffn so that I can upload it just for you guys~!


	6. Chapter 6 21

**Disclaimer: **No, Hetalia is not mine. Neither is the old lady Prussia almost hit. Or that mailbox.

**A/N: **Haha, guess who felt SUPER productive today! Yeah, that's right, I did~! I got out another whole chapter! Yay me! Yay you guys! (And this is sort of because I felt bad about the long wait for chapters 4 & 5... xD) And... I haven't left for San Francisco yet! And... I really, really need to be working on my summer reading... ahaha... wow, I'm screwed... TT_TT; BUT! Read on!

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

I was ready to tear all my hair out.

Just to make it _stop_.

That included my pubic hair.

Yeah, I was _that _fucking desperate.

And to think, it was such a short ride to Spain's house. He was only just outside Madrid, after all. But since Karma hates me, she put shit-tons of traffic between here and there.

I just couldn't fathom why she hated me **SO MUCH **that she felt the need to desert me to my fate in this God-forsaken van with these complete _imbeciles_.

"Hey, Prussia, you are _so_ lucky your aim sucks, because if it didn't, well... I hope you realize Mattie has a lot of very _thick_, very _high-quality_ Canadian hockey sticks he would have been all too happy to stuff down your throat." America said cheerfully, patting Canada on the back as he did so.

Canada in turn smiled a little bitterly, and glanced past Spain on his right to look out the window. "You wouldn't really have hit her, would you, Gilbert?" he asked quietly.

"Yes he would have," France muttered sourly beneath his breath, resting his chin on his palms and his elbows on his knees (since I'd watched him grope Feliciano _one_ too many times, and found duct tape on the floor beneath me, and decided to put it to good use **on his wrists**), but Canada didn't seem to have heard him.

"Oh, don't go there now, Canada, luv," England sighed, dropping his forehead onto the dashboard and crossing his arms above it. "This ride is going to be miserable enough without two of us sorting out relationship problems. Especially not while he's driving!"

"Yeah, we can't have the bleached vampire hitting anything now, can we?" I murmured sarcastically. "He might explode and blind us all with his _sparkliness_."

"Hey!" America snapped, whirling to face me, a childish pout on his face. "No Twilight cracks!"

"Oh, come off it America, the book was terrible," England chipped in, raising his head to glare at the offending defender of sparkling vampires. "Her characters had no depth and her vocabulary was disturbingly inconsistent. If I hadn't seen a picture of her I'd have thought her a sixteen year old girl with a masochistic streak, failing marks in all her classes, and a language professor for a parent."

"Once I sort that all out, I'll protest!" America proclaimed heroically, before falling silent.

The rest of us followed suit, France going so far as to let out a relieved sigh. England just replaced his head on the dashboard, clearly not expecting a response of any sort any time soon. Feliciano continued to snore peacefully against the rear left window of the van, and Spain watched the scenery pass slowly outside the tinted window.

...

_Why_ were they all here again?

"You brought EVERYONE to come pick us up." I deadpanned, just to break the silence, and not really talking to any of the idiots in particular. "_Why_."

"Oh this isn't everyone," France chuckled darkly, his level of pervertedness seemingly drained by the present company. "Hungary and Austria are already at Spain's place, and I believe dear America let slip to Russia where we would all be today, and he said maybe he would drop by."

"F-Fucking hell, America, why would you tell _Russia_ where we would be?" Prussia's shaking voice spoke up from the front of the van, startling us all. "I owe that fucker money! So unawesome!"

_'Fucking hell America...'_ Why does that sound so familiar...?

"Fuck fuck fuck!" Prussia continued, banging his head on the top of the steering wheel. "Fucking unawesome bastard... Fucking America..."

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_The room was eerily- I mean, _peacefully_ quiet for once, I realized as I looked up from the cookbook I was glaring a- I mean, _reading_. God, how quiet it actually was when those two fuckers weren't bothering the ever-living Jesus out of me. Chigi, maybe I liked this. Maybe it was... calming, or some shit like that._

_..._

_If jumping like a freaking kitten on cat-nip (That shit was like _crack _to them!) every time someone walks past your hotel room constitutes as calm._

_Just because I don't get a lot of alone time anymore doesn't mean I'm a wuss. I'm just... a survivor! That's right! My bad-ass survival skills have kept me alive for a long time now. Don't laugh at the Italian instincts. We all know you're just a jealous little bitch._

_Speaking of bitches... God, I wished I had a bitch to cook for me. Maybe then I wouldn't have to send Feli out every time I needed ingredients for anything. Or maybe I would blackmai-_ask_ Feli to cook for me one of these days..._

_And just because I spaced out **totally** didn't mean I freaked out and screamed somewhat-like a little girl when the hotel phone suddenly rang._

_"Romano Vargas?"_

_"Yes, this is Romano Vargas," I said warily, clutching the phone receiver tightly between sweaty palms. "Why, what do you want?"_

_"We have your brother," A bored male voice said on the other end of the line, before he was heard audibly sighing. "He knocked over our largest can display, and he said we could call you to take care of it. Something about not having taken his medication this morning. All twenty one medications. Feliciano Vargas, right?"_

_"Che cazzo!" I cursed. Leave it to my fratellino to get into trouble in a fucking grocery store. "Yes, I'll be right there," I sighed._

_Fucking America._

_Fucking Feliciano._

_Fucking Germany._

_Fucking world meetings IN America._

_FUCKING AMERICA!_

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

...what the _flying fuck_ was that?

"...you lost a bet with Russia over a _closet?_" England's dubious voice asked, and I saw his gaze directed at Prussia.

"Shit, _yes,_ okay? The awesome me doesn't ever lose bets, and I thought I had this one in the bag, so I-"

"Are we talking _sex_ in a closet, coming _out_ of the closet- what sort of closet is this, _cher_, and why was I not informed of this occurrence sooner?" France asked curiously, straining his neck to see his friend's reply.

"_What_ about sex, ve?" Feliciano asked, sitting bolt upright in his seat and staring right at the French nation.

"Feli, cher, you are either _extremely_ gifted and have _very_ selective hearing, or you have a very _bizarre_ way of knowing just when you are not supposed to be hearing something," France sighed, already having given up on his usually flamboyant attitude.

It looked to me like England had noticed this also (OK, _Grazie Dio,_ so it wasn't just me), and looked almost a little nervous as he eyed his boyfriend (or... Okay, I _assumed_ they were dating... I didn't think England was the type to let just anyone fuck him in the back of a van with a dirty churro...) from the front seat.

"Oh, I have lots of those things," Feliciano said happily, pulling out his fingers as he prepared to list off all his mental issues. "I take twenty-one medications a day, big brother Francis! One for anxiety, one for bipolar disorder, one for ADHD..."

ADHD... again with this fucking deja vu feeling...

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_The news, which was still running on the television behind me, caught my attention for an instant, and I turned to see what it was about. I almost thought I'd heard..._

_"...Preparations are under way for the biggest snowstorm of the year, folks. If you're looking to travel anywhere for Christmas, you're going to want to do it soon, because we're predicting two feet of snow next week in most parts of the state. Have a wonderful Thursday evening everyone; this is NBC Connecticut, on December 13th, signing off."_

_I switched off the TV and slammed the phone back onto the shitty receiver, which broke, naturally, as went my luck. I cussed out the receiver and America some more before finally giving it a dejected, "Fuck you," and exiting the hotel room. It was way too late for this shit._

_If four in the afternoon constitutes as late for _any_ shit._

_The room itself wasn't bad, really. It was just the fact that it was American that made everything in it not worth my while. Or my money. Thank God all of England's lovey-dovey shit made the hamburger bastard pay for all of our stays in this stupid hotel. _

_The meeting room wasn't even that big! _

_I'd been in larger rooms in Lichtenstein, which was fucking miniscule! _

_So tiny it was barely even mentioned! So fucking unnoticeable it was barely seen more often than Canada! _

_Even though Canada was fucking huge! _

_Come on, I mean, really. The dick didn't have a senate room we could use or anything?_

_..._

_Wow, maybe it was time I took Feli's meds too. I must be ADHD or something._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

Um. What?

It's summertime. Why the fuck is snow...

Wait a minute.

_Connecticut?_

That's in...

_America?_ What the fuck is going on?

"Oh bollocks, Italy Veneziano, we get it already! Just -for the love of God- _stop_ already!" England complained, apparently deciding what little remained of his sanity was safer from Feliciano being smashed on the dashboard than it was sitting upright in his head the way it was supposed to be.

"Oh, right, as if you don't have your own issues, Inglaterra," Spain said darkly, still not moving from his position staring out the side window.

"I-I beg your pardon?" England spluttered, turning completely around to look at Spain, and fix him with a rather angry glare. "Care to repeat that?"

"Oh, right," Spain said, turning to face England also now, "As if you don't have your own issues, _Ing-la-ter-ra_," he said slowly, enunciating each word so as to get his message across more clearly.

"_Antoine_," Francis said warningly, leaning forward in his seat and pressing a pair of duct-taped hands to his friend's shoulder. "Don't be hostile to _Angleterre_ now, you were doing so well."

"Sí, big brother Toni, and I thought you hated the Netherlands, not England!" Feliciano chirped.

The Netherlands...? Shit, what does he even have to do with anything...?

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_I passed the Netherlands in the hallway, smoking some sketchy shit in that damn pipe of his, but paid him no more mind than the wallpaper behind him._

_It was rather nice wallpaper, by the way. All cream colored and floral and shit. With those nice little ice-cream-shop stripes on the base thingy, which was bordered by two decent quality wood banner strip thingies._

_Okay, so I paid him some mind._

_His hair was spiked._

_And shit._

_..._

_You know, the usual._

_I don't know, dammit!_

_Where was I before? The tiny meeting room. Okay, yeah. That sounds about right. Hmm. Yeah, don't get me wrong, Connecticut is nice. Really. And so is the Residence Inn, by the Marriott, with a fucking Courtyard (also) by Marriott _right_ across a restaurant from it._

_But._

_Yes, here's that bombshell you've all been waiting for since the whole "This place is really nice," bit._

_Yeah._

_BUT!_

_But I was a picky, Italian individual. _

_And America sucked. _

_And Connecticut was fucking tiny. _

_Like Lichtenstein._

_It's _tiny_._

_And did I mention tiny?_

_And cheesy._

_And American._

_And I couldn't STAND American things anymore._

_They import too much shit from China._

_Seriously._

_That stuff sucks._

_I thought I felt China's glare on my back the whole way through the lobby, but I ignored him as best I could. In a very manly and non-retreating fashion. And I totally _didn't_ hurry out those motherfucking glass and completely _not_ thick enough doors like I was scared he was going to burn a hole through my very **soul** with those brown eyes._

_Nope, that never happened._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

And now I was sweating. My hands felt all clammy, and were those cramps coming on? I'm remembering this. I'm remembering the exact gaze China was fixing me with. It's all coming back to me now, I can see it-!

...Fuck, or I _could_ have, if these idiots would shut the hell up already!

"...yes. Ah, you're right, lo siento Inglaterra," Spain said apologetically, rubbing at the back of his head absently. "I guess I was just a little deeper in thought than I'm used to, a second ago there."

"Hmph, a rare occurrence for you, I suppose," England muttered, but said no more on the matter.

"Have we gotten to the corner yet?" Canada asked, -probably more like a shout for him- trying to change the topic of conversation.

"Ah, I've no idea," France sighed. "Shouldn't we have, by now?"

"Should have isn't the same as does," England murmured. "We've not reached the intersection yet, no."

...intersection? Yes, yes another one! Bring it on! Bring on the memory-shit!

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

France's crotch monster.

**(;*) - ...France?**

I-I'm not really sure what _that_ was about.

...

A-Anyway.

Carry on.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_So I made my way down to the freaking Walgreens on the corner of that-too-damn-busy-four-way-intersection, as I had dubbed it two days ago, when we drove down to this little hovel of a hotel from Bradley International Airport._

_I mean, seriously. The dumb bastard couldn't have picked a closer McDonald's to pick to stick us a block away from if he'd tried. _

_He had to drive us -at _extremely_ fast speeds, might I add, I mean, holy shit man, I drove fast when I was in my sports cars, but we could have _died_ (temporarily)- from the Airport that even with the speeds we drove at, took 20 minutes to reach?_

_That was twenty minutes of my life I was _never_ going to get back, you know._

_Okay, I didn't miss it that much. _

_I'm sure it would have been as miserable as the rest of my life had proven to be until this point._

_Well anyway. I got to the corner of that-too-damn-busy-four-way-intersection (on the McDonald's side) and waited for the cars to stop and let a badass Italian through. I even decided to give a few of them the one-fingered salute while cursing them all out in the motherfucking language I was brought up on, because it was better than their shitty English anyway, and none of them were fucking stopping._

_It took a while._

_Like, so long, (because they're fucking rude-ass **Americans**, and they all decided to flip me off as they went because they were probably brought up taught that as etiquette) that I decided to just sit down and wait for someone else to attempt to cross the street._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

What the hell, I did this...? Mio Dio, I...

Never mind, that _does_ sound like something I'd do.

"...so unawesome," Prussia was complaining. "I'm seriously about to lose some awesome, here. All these cars are so unawesomely slow. Can't you speed them up or something, Antonio? It's like they're all asleep at the wheel or something!"

"Spanish people are relaxed, amigo, you know that," Spain chuckled, pressing his head to the window and sighing. "Who knows, maybe they are asleep."

Asleep... where was I before?

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_The sound of the cars was sort of comforting. _

_I mean, we always had motor-like noises in my business-place back in Italy. _

_Through the windows, you know. _

_'Cause it was on a busy street and stuff. And I'll be the first person to admit I was more likely to _sleep_ than I was to _work_ in my work place. _

_Hah, working in the work place. Who the hell would do that? Some crazy-shit, no doubt. But as a country's representative, (or at least half of one, shut _up_, okay?) I couldn't exactly be fired._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

I fell asleep at an intersection...?

"...got to get somewhere we can pull off, even if that means taking directions from Spain," England directed, before beginning to identify highway exits to Prussia.

"Hey, my directional skills are _not_ that bad!" Spain protested weakly.

"Antoine, you could not find a horse in a barn if you were led right _to_ it, cher. Consider it a gift." Francis deadpanned.

...find...

Hey! I resent that on behalf of my oblivious supposed boyfriend!

Wait... find.

...

Ugh, I _knew_ all this deja vu shit would give me cramps.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_..._

_And, uh... okay, _maybe_ I fell asleep._

_Just a little._

_But I was really fucking tired, okay?_

_That stupid potato bastard had dragged Feli out for drinks last night, and-_

_...fine, Feli dragged the potato bastard out for drinks, and Feli wasn't back until two in the morning!_

_Two in the morning, I mean, _che cazzo_, what the hell is there to do in Connecticut that keeps you up until two in the morning? And this is my fratellino we're talking about! He takes siestas! Lots of them! Like me! _

_(Shut up. Italians are very high-maintenance sexy motherfuckers who need their beauty sleep.)_

_Anyway, I was up worrying over the little fucker until that hotel room door opened again. Don't judge me. I worry about my fratellino. Any self-respecting, mother-loving, God-following, brother-taking-care-of-ing... _

_You know what? I give the fuck up. I just give _up_._

_So I fell asleep._

_And Spain found me there._

_Asleep._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

...wow, that's happened more than once.

Usually when I'm supposed to be cleaning something.

...

Good times, good times.

"Fuck, albino dude, I think you missed the exit again!" America complained, brushing crumbs (from the _huge_-_ass_ bag of churros he'd just polished off) off his shirt and onto the -ew, _so_ glad I'm not sitting in the middle row- floor.

"I did not!" Prussia exclaimed, spinning the wheel in a complete 360 and sending us all crashing over to the right wall of the van, and illiciting one Italian-sounding giggle, one Italian string of curse-words, one French string of tongue-fucking nonsense, one British-sounding string of gibberish, one American-sounding scream of terror, one Spanish expletive I **NEVER** thought I would hear from those lips, and one barely-audible cry of "Maple!"

France was leaning on me, and Feliciano was leaning on him, and I could safely assume Spain was currently being crushed under the weight of both North American nations. I cursed again, trying to shove France back into his own seat, and he cursed as well, but tried to shove his hands down my pants. At which I screamed again.

After what seemed like ENTIRELY too long a period of time, the van righted itself, and France the fuckface slid back into his own seat, after which I smacked him in the nose.

"See? I made the exit," Prussia said proudly, turning to shoot us all a shit-eating grin. "And look! We're almost there!"

"Yes, and I think you made whatever makes the exhaust come out of the car explode," England scowled, staring out his window at the cloud of smoke now surrounding the vehicle. "Or else completely shredded our tires."

The exhaust of a car... deja vu again? (How fucking long _is_ this memory?)

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_"Lovi?" a very familiar, very startled-sounding voice exclaimed right by my ear. "Lovi, are you okay?"_

_"Fratello!" Feliciano's voice called worriedly, also near my ear. Except, near my other ear._

_Twice the idiot._

_What a fucking joy._

_"Vaffanculo," I muttered sourly, turning over to lie on my side in the grass. "'M trying to sleep..."_

_"Ahaha, that's lovely, Lovi," Spain said, as a hand tapped my shoulder nervously. "But you're kind of right next to the highway exit so there are a lot of cars, and a lot of exhaust, and a McDonald's, and I don't think you want your nose to be permanently damaged by either of those scents."_

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

...Shit, was it just me, or was it getting harder to open my eyes?

"Can't I rape him just a little bit...?" France's voice breathed lowly somewhere near me, before I heard an audible slap, and British-sounding curses accented by French complaints.

"Italy Romano? Can you hear us?" That was Canada's quiet voice. I seriously wonder why nobody remembers him. I mean, really. It's not that hard.

"Rude Italian brother?" ...and there's America.

"Is fratello still breathing? Do I get to be the only Italy now, ve?"

...

Feliciano, I hate you.

So much.

So... _fucking_ much.

"Lovi, are you okay? Can you see me? Listen to Boss Spain..." Shit, he sounded worried... Ah, but wait...

_Boss_ Spain...

Che palle, curse all this deja vu stuff... I feel sleepy again...

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_"W-what?" I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright._

_"Si, fratello," Feli exclaimed happily. "Big brother Spain came to pick me up when you didn't show up, and he even helped the nice people pick up the cans! And then we saw someone lying on the grass across the road, and we thought maybe we should go help them! And then we woke you up!"_

_"...we shall never speak of this again," I mumbled after a short pause, and expectant looks from both Spain and Feliciano. Spain nodded awkwardly and smiled, and Feli just laughed and clapped his hands._

_I scrambled to my feet, and almost fell over again for the trouble, in my still half-sleeping body. Spain caught my arm, and I lurched forward another step anyway before properly catching myself. I swatted his hand away, and brushed off my uniform's pants, before strutting back towards the road up towards the hotel._

_..._

_Like a motherfucking boss._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

"Can we carry him into the house- er, mansion?" England asked awkwardly from somewhere above me.

"Quiet blond boy I'm not sure I've ever seen before, go inside and get Austria and Hungary, they should have something to help!"

...oh, _Spain_. He's Canada. Come on. You know Canada.

"I'm Canada!"

"...Canadia, bro, when did you get here?" America exclaimed.

"I hate you," Canada muttered, before I heard soft footfalls walking away from the -I was still in the van, right?- van and towards Spain's house.

"Ve, Big Brother Spain, this reminds me of the time Lovino had the plague!" Oh, Gesu Christo, I wish I didn't have _those_ memories... thank you SO much, Feliciano, for bringing them back up... "Oh, that was so scary! He couldn't move or anything without crying for _weeks!_"

"Ay, I know, Feli... He looks so pale, just like then... I know Lovi's not my colony anymore, but... I still have to protect him!" Spain said softly.

_Hell_ no I'm not his colony!

...

But even I just d'awwed at the clichéness of that statement.

...

_Why_ can't I move to smack him for making me d'aww.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_A motherfucking boss..._

_Who _hadn't_ just fallen asleep waiting to cross an intersection to a grocery store to pick up his little brother who needed meds, and fast, and whose former parental figure/almost-brother/caretaker hadn't just woke him up extremely awkwardly._

_Yeah. I envied that dude._

_I'm sure he had a really nice life right about now._

_Yup._

_Maybe the fucker was sipping lemonade while sitting in his Ferrari and watching his blonde wife mow the lawn to their mansion, in only a bikini._

_"Lovi, you seem kind of out of it, did you sleep at all last night~?" Spain asked after a minute or two of walking up that damn hill towards the hotel. "I know Feli and Ludwig didn't go back to the room until late last night... you didn't stay up waiting for them, did you?"_

_"No!" I snapped, defensively. A blush spread across my cheeks instantly. Well, it was true. I didn't stay up waiting for them. No, it was just Feli I was waiting for._

_"Okay, you didn't stay up waiting for _Feli_, did you~?" he clarified quickly._

_Tricky bastard._

_"That's none of your business!" I huffed. "My sleeping habits are my own concern. Not yours. I haven't been your fucking colony for over a hundred years."_

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

"Oh, poor sweet Roma! What did you _do_, Antonio! He's just out of the hospital, you should know better than to try to have any _sexytimes_ until he feels better!"

Oh.

I guess Hungary's here.

So blunt. So _painfully_, painfully blunt.

"Hungary! He doesn't remember that yet!" Spain said frantically, and I could just imagine the startled look on his face, while he animatedly waved his arms in the air.

"Oh! Right, right of course. Well what's the matter with the dear?"

"Ve, fratello passed out in the car and he hasn't responded since! I might get to be the only Italy, Miss Hungary! Isn't that great?" Feliciano chirped.

I repeat.

I hate you.

So much.

Why. Why are we related.

"Italy Veneziano, that's a _terrible_ thing to say!" Austria scolded him, and I could _also_ imagine the look on the piano bastard's face while he frowned down his nose at my little brother.

"Ve... sorry Mister Austria..."

"FELICIANO! Stop **SAYING** that!" Spain rumbled darkly.

...holy shit, Spain's pirate voice is out again.

Two times in one day.

He _must_ be stressed.

"V-Ve, I'm s-sorry! Don't hurt me!"

"Oh, Antonio, you're scaring him!" Hungary snapped. "Stop being an ass!"

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_"Ve, you and big brother Spain had _sex?_" Feli asked, coming up next to me on the sidewalk, his brown eyes wide open, for once in a very long time. "Mister Austria never did that with me! I'm so glad, ohh, that would have scared me so much fratello! Did you ride him or was it just into the mattress? Ve, I want to try that with Germany one day, it looks like so much fun!"_

_"We- what? Che cazzo, Feli!" I spluttered. "I didn't say that- stupid tomato bastard- you know I didn't- where the fuck did you-_ no!_"_

_"Ahaha, Feli, that's not polite to say to someone..." Spain said nervously. "And no, we never... did _that."

_"I'm going back to the room," I said quickly, before Feli could say anything else completely mortifying about Spain and I, "And I'm making a pizza, and I'm not leaving the room until _very_ late in the morning, or whenever I'm forced to leave for the maids, because they're pretty, and you're both complete _asses_."_

_"Ve... I'm not an ass, am I fratello?" Feli's voice muttered shakily from behind me, and I actually stopped to turn and face him, just to shout "YES!" in his face._

_But... he had those eyes going... the ones with the big shiny spots in them, that I don't even know how the fuck they got there because there's one sun, dammit, not three of them! And his curl was drooping now too... shit, I hated it when his curl drooped... he looked so sad..._

_"_No_, you're not an ass," I sighed, before turning around once again, and continuing the trek up the hill._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

"There, now Italy and Austria _(and Prussia, and France)_ are inside, what do we do, Hungary?" England asked, beginning to sound a little nervous.

"Don't rush the genius, England! Give me a moment to think. Now you're certain he's not just sleeping?" Hungary demanded, and I felt a sharp twang in my cheek, signifying her pinching it with those fucking talons all women seemed to have nowadays.

"No!" Spain said frantically, and I could hear the tell-tale sounds of footsteps on gravel that signified his pacing. "When Lovi sleeps, he always mumbles every few minutes! His breathing isn't even enough for him to be sleeping, which is why I don't understand why he's not awake!"

...I _do_ that?

"Alright then... hmm, hand me my purse, will you, Alfred, dear?"

"_Hand?_ You can't just say give?"

"America dear, give me the damn purse before you find a frying pan so far up your ass it will protrude from your nose."

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_On the one side of us was a large incline covered in rocks and bushes and shit, and a plastic sign advertising a puppy store just up the hill. A larger billboard also informed me there was a Christmas Tree Shoppe up there too. I didn't know what the fuck a Christmas store would be doing in a place like this year-round. And I didn't want to _know_. _

_Actually, I didn't really give a shit._

_And then on the other side there were some more stores. And stuff. And an A. C. Moore, and a Bed Bath and Beyond, and a Babies R Us. And... there was our hotel. Finally. But... we had to cross the street again. _

Cazzo_._

_I just stood there for a minute or so, staring at all the cars whizzing past us. A few teenagers jeered out at us from a Chevy's window, and I didn't even have the energy to flip them off. It was like all the energy had fucking leaked out of me on the walk up here, through the hole that was where my heart was supposed to have been._

_It... it couldn't have been than remark about Spain and I. _

_There was no way. _

_I liked women. _

_Like Belgium. _

_I had to talk to her later. _

_Yes, that's what I'd do. _

_At the next meeting, I might..._

_"Come on Lovi," Spain said gently, taking my hand in his and dragging me across the road quickly._

_He... He didn't even look both ways!_

_We probably almost got hit about _ten_ times on the way across. And it was only a _four_-lane street! And... and it was like he had fucking locked my hand in his! It couldn't have been my lack of energy that made it so hard for me to pull out of his grip though. I wasn't that weak! Honestly! I was motherfucking South Italy! The _badass_ one of the pair of us._

_..._

_Right? _

_(Okay, you know what? I suffer from a _chronic_ lack of self-confidence, so fuck off, you stupid shits.)_

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

...my peaceful walk down memory lane was ended like an old lady's walk ends when someone stabs her in the gut and steals her purse when some NASTY-ASS scent assaulted my nostrils, and I jolted into a sitting position, gasping for breath.

**"HOLY MOTHER-FUCKING SHIT-EATING COCK-SUCKING JESUS-KICKING TITS!"** I screamed, violently swatting away the tiny green-colored vial held under my nose by the manicured nails I recognized as Hungary's.

"Hello to you too, Roma dear," she smiled simply, before capping the vial, tucking it back into her purse, and strutting -yes strutting, in five inch tall wedge sandals- towards Spain's house.

"Lovi!" Spain exclaimed, sounding relieved, as he flung his arms around my neck and hugged me close to his chest.

"I'm fine, tomato bastard," I huffed, shoving him off and hopping out of the van, stalking towards the house to hide the blush covering my face.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

**A/N:** Ahaha, there you have it! This is what YOU GUYS get when my sister is left alone with me all day, and is directed to clean her room. Which she does. Eventually. (read: bothers me until I flip an epic shit, and periodically gets her room done bit by bit between flip-out sessions.) Uh... I hope you liked it~! (It was SO hard trying to keep this away from my sister's prying eyes all day. She's not old enough for Hetalia. XD. You guys better be hella grateful.)


	7. Chapter 7 8

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia still isn't mine. Unfortunately, all this summer work is. (I'm so dead.)

**A/N: **Hai y'all! I know I've been updating a TON lately, but I've had a TON of free time, and a really bad work ethic lately. (This summer work is going to kill me. Seriously. I will die by paper cut, if nothing else.) And um... here! This is probably the last chapter I'm going to be able to get up for a while (and I mean it this time XD) so... yeah. I think I owed you guys a lot of quick updates for all that waiting you did in May/June, so these few chapters should make up for it, yeah? :D So... enjoy!

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

Well, there were two "_sides_" to the should-be-minor event that was me walking into Spain's house.

A bad one, and a _worse_ one.

The bad one was that he had fucking _redecorated_, even since that recent memory I'd had a while back, the one about the rugs. Now everything was sort of shaped the same, but it was also... in a completely different location.

For example, whereas before Spain's television had been against the wall about ten feet away from the door to the right of you when you entered, now it was against the wall on the left. But it was the wall across from the kitchen, not the one parallel to the door.

See, now you're probably confused. I'll just put this in the worse category and go over it after I complain some more. Spain has a fucking _confusing_ house, dammit.

So anyway. Also in the bad category was the fact that I had no idea how the _fuck_ I was supposed to act around Austria. I mean, from what I remembered, I'd just attempted to get independence from the bastard.

That didn't exactly make us best friends.

Or any kind of friends at all.

Or even _acquaintances_, dammit.

Oh shut up.

Long rant short, I was fucking confused about how to act around Austria at first.

Then I decided to be my usual, rude self.

Problem solved.

Now (mainly because I forget what the fuck I was planning on ranting about next, but shut the fuck up, because nobody asked you) onto the "worse."

Russia was there after all.

And so was Belgium.

That was actually good news, because she was like an older sister to me. I needed an older sister to protect me from all these idiots. I was already an amnesiac, dammit.

(I don't fucking _care_ if that's not the right word for it, dammit!)

...I also wondered briefly if I still called her Bella now, or I'd given that up... but quickly decided she was my Bella and I was her Roma, and that wouldn't have changed, even over 152 years.

("Roma, oh you poor dear!" she'd cried when I first stepped through the door, launching herself at me, and locking her thin -but misleadingly strong- arms around my neck. "Oh, baby-doll, are you alright?" she demanded, even while she was crushing me in her grip. I told her I'd be better if I could breathe, and she released me, but kept my good arm locked in hers for the next half an hour while periodically cooing over me or smothering my face with sisterly/motherly kisses.)

But when Bella was with Hungary, and they both decided to pull small cameras from disturbing locations on their persons and film Spain with me, Prussia with Canada and France with England, shit got awkward.

According to a warning from Canada I'd gotten before Bella/Hungary assaulted me with said cameras, that happened a lot.

And I knew Canada wasn't the type to lie.

And Bella with her cat-like smile _was_.

Hence why Bella was in the _worse_ category.

And then there was the moved furniture. Yeah. That was screwing with me, big time.

See, Spain has a very, _very_ large house. You wouldn't think it, just from seeing the side entrance, but that's because we -the colonies... er, I guess I should say **FORMER** colonies and Spain- always went in through the "_side_" entrance.

That's because the main entrance is (1) fucking _huge_, (2) _really_ easy to get dirty, (3) _really_ hard to clean, and (4) _really_ long and we're all lazy asses who don't want to walk that far.

It's your typical ballroom sort of entrance- the two sets of curved stairs with the metal-worked banisters, the polished marble floors, and the awkward-as-fuck tables around the walls that really should look out of place but never do.

And don't forget the antique Spanish vases on the awkward tables.

Can't forget those.

I know **I **can't anyway.

I broke enough of them when I was younger.

So we -the **former** colonies- go in the _side_ entrance.

Spain has two driveways anyway.

One tiny-ass little gravel one for us, and one huge-ass brick one for guests and fancy people and shit.

Shit, I'm getting off track again.

Anyway.

Well... The _side_ entrance looks more like your average living room.

You walk through the door, and the first thing you see is another hallway, leading to the dining room. There's only about two feet of wall from the door/hallway to the LEFT adjacent wall, and that awkward space was where the television was now stationed. It also just happened to be placed strategically across from the kitchen, so that whoever was in the kitchen could plausibly see/hear the television from where they were.

It was a fucking big television too. I see Spain upgraded. What was this, a 52" plasma? What the fuck...?

To the right of the "_side_" door (versus _front_ door or _back_ door) was the... well I don't want to say lobby, but it's not quite a living room... -_sitting_ room?- that was between me and the kitchen.

There were two matching couches and two chairs. (One white couch with black pillows, one black couch with white pillows, and two black and white checkered armchairs.) Surprisingly stylish, for _Spain_. Everything in the sitting room was black and white, and modern to boot.

Bravo, Spain.

...fuck, where had I even been going with this in the first place...?

I give up.

My mind is still all fucked up from that last piece of memory I had on the ride over.

Screw descriptions.

Spain remodeled.

There you go.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

Well, after a half an hour or so, (Feliciano peed his pants when he saw Russia, and I guess he had to go change... then peed them _again_ when he realized Russia wasn't going anywhere anytime soon... and **_again_ **when Spain asked him to get Russia a drink... a _lot_ of changes of pants were needed, okay?) everyone was gathered around the living room, chatting animatedly (_Hungary_)/rudely (_America/Prussia_)/snootily (_Austria_)/quietly (_Canada_) with one another.

And I plopped myself in a chair in a corner and refused to get up again. Listening to them all was enough stimulation in itself.

_Gesu Cristo,_ was I confused.

What was all this about a Euro crisis they all kept referring to? France mentioned it when he was chatting with Canada, although I think he was just trying to scrape up a pity-fuck or something. And then Prussia sat next to Canada and that discussion quickly changed to one about a _soufflé_ recipe France insisted Canada should borrow.

England was talking to the Netherlands (what the fuck was _he_ doing here anyway...? Maybe he was Bella's ride or something?) about Spain's economic issues over the past few years... Spain had had economy problems lately? Was he alright? Why didn't he look sick?

And when Bella finally stopped coddling me over my memory-loss, (and Hungary stopped looking at me like I was a piece of _meat_,) I watched Bella start a conversation with Spain (effectively stopping him from coming over to where I was sitting) about the 2012 London Olympics.

...I didn't care so much about the 2012 London Olympics.

In fact, I didn't care at _all_.

I'm sure Italy kicked ass, as usual.

(...shut up.)

What I cared about was the fact that Spain was talking to Bella awkwardly.

Very, _very_ awkwardly.

I observed the pair of them sharply, trying to figure out what the tension was between them, but with little success.

...because right then all I had was either that one of them had stolen the other's lover, (Nope, don't think Bella would ever steal me... and I haven't known her to date... did that change in the last 152 years?) or they were exes. (Bella? And Spain? _Psht_.)

And neither of those options made any logical sense, because Spain and Bella were like... _best friends_.

Or _brother and sister_.

Or...

_Mother_ and... _father_...

To... _me_...

...

**FUCK**.

Shit, it's not true!

I refuse to believe it!

Spain would never have...

_Would_ he?

And Bella, she couldn't have...

_Could_ she?

Fuck, but it _might_ have happened...

I'd have to ask someone later.

And now to my fucking brilliant coping tactic: observing the nearest slightly interesting object.

And that "slightly interesting" object happened to be America... staring at me from across the room.

_Why...?_

I didn't even know what to think... I mean really, he looked _constipated_ or something. And then he started twitching his head to one side, and I just frowned at him, silently wondering how the fuck **HE** got to be a superpower.

And then he started winking at me, and I decided it was time for me to get lost in the random hallways of Spain's house before he _-or France-_ tried something they would regret later.

I rose from my chair, noticing Spain's desperate glance in my direction but not going towards him. I started into the kitchen, before ducking into a small cupboard that was tucked under the stairs leading up to the second floor.

I knew there was a passage hidden in the back from my colony days, and that would take me all the way to the closet beside the south bathroom- in other words, completely around the sitting room, and out past the dining room, where nobody (except maybe Bella or the Netherlands) would think to look for me after watching me leave the room from the direction of the kitchen.

I popped the hatch open and slid inside, before carefully replacing the cork-like material so that all the kitchen's light was impossible for me to see. I pulled out my phone and clicked the lock button, instantly lighting up the slim space with the red light that issued from my background picture of a tomato.

It was a lot _smaller_ than I remembered it being.

(Did it shrink, or did I grow again?)

And a lot _darker_.

(Busted light bulbs... huh, I should replace those. My phone is only so bright.)

And a lot _cob-webbier_.

(I really fucking hope those aren't spider webs. I fucking _hate_ spiders.)

And a lot _dirtier_.

(Who _cleans_ this space? They ought to be fired. Che _cazzo_.)

Holy shit, did Spain clean in here at _all?_

...

Hell, did he even realize this little hallway _existed?_

Wait... maybe he hadn't realized it was here... after all, this was _Spain_ we were talking about...

"_Fuck_, Italy Romano, wait up!" America's voice called out loudly from somewhere close behind me, and I flinched, grinding my teeth together.

"How did you even fit through that door?" I demanded, spinning on my heel to face him, and flashing my cellphone's light directly in his eyes. "And shut up, do you want everyone to hear us? Why are you here anyway?"

He looked rather absurd, I noted, as I just watched him attempt to squeeze through the tiny passageway to catch up to me.

His shoulders brushed both walls, they were so wide, and he had to crouch to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. His glasses were reflecting the red light from my phone back at me, and I began to wonder if he wasn't beginning to resemble some strange version of _Prussia_ or something. Ugh. Scary thought. America the Prussia. Jeez, world domination would be his. I hope no one ever tells him he's a bit like Prussia.

...off-track again.

Why the fuck is he taking so long to answer?

"Ah... too many questions," he frowned, scratching his head. "I fit through the door by breaking it a little bit more, no I don't want anyone to hear us, and I'm here because I need to ask you something! Happy?"

"No, not if you broke the door, bastard, because then Spain will notice and try to fix it, and figure out this place exists." I turned away from him and continued back down the hallway, partially to see if he'd keep following me, and partially to see if he'd get stuck eventually. "What do you really want?"

"Well, I just told you, didn't I?" America snapped. "I want to ask you something!"

"_First_, you just said that, _second_, I don't trust you," I rattled off, counting on my fingers as well for good measure, "_Third_, you're an idiot, and _fourth_ you just followed me into a cupboard and are continuing to follow me as I go you-don't-even-know-where, once again demonstrating not only your lack of self-preservation instincts but intelligence as well."

"Wha...?" he spluttered, "I don't... Can you stop being so freaking _difficult_?" he whined. "I just wanted to ask you a question!"

"Well ask it, idiota, I've been waiting!" I snapped, as I reached the door to the closet I had hoped was still there.

I tried waiting for him to say something before going through, but he took too fucking long and I gave up.

(I do that a lot, in case you hadn't noticed. _Giving up:_ it's a specialty of mine.)

I didn't step into a closet, rather, a bathroom. In fact, what looked like a carbon copy of the bathroom I knew to exist next door to this "closet," but larger by half. And now there was a shower in here too. Right next to me. The big kind with the enormous frosted glass bubble around it and a door somewhere in the middle of that.

...Spain extended the bathroom into the closet that used to be here? Are you serious...? I can't even...

"Alright..." America said, sounding just as disconcerted by the appearance of the bathroom as I felt. "Well... uh... I forgot. Hey, this is a nice shower! I wish I had one this nice..."

"Again- shut **UP**, bastardo! Unless you _want_ everyone to find us!" I hissed, walking over to the toilet and perching on the lid.

"OH! _Us!_ That's it!" he crowed, stumbling away from the wall-panel door and stopping just in front of me.

I guess his foot hit the corner of the door or something though, because it swung closed with a click and I couldn't even tell it was there anymore. But then he shoved his face just in front of mine and blocked me from escaping by holding me between the wall and himself, and I grew _extremely_ disconcerted _extremely_ quickly.

"B-Bastard, what are you..." I stammered.

"Look, Italy Romano. You have amnesia. Right?" I nodded nervously, not liking where this was going. "And you're cute enough- don't you want to broaden your horizons? I mean, wouldn't you like to try dating someone _other_ than Spain?"

"WHAT? I-" I started to shout, but America covered my mouth with his hand and continued.

"Shh, I know you're flustered that I'm asking. I would be too! after all, I am **the hero!**" he laughed at his own 'joke' before continuing. "See, here's the thing, Italy Romano... don't you think Spain will want to move on, now that you can't even remember all the hard work he put into being in a relationship with you, and getting close enough to you to make you trust him enough to stop hitting him every five minutes? Or... five seconds?"

He removed his hand, but not until after I bit him, and I took a huge gulp of air before speaking. "What? Spain would never..."

I paused and thought about it (and completely ignored him,) while he continued to rant about his good qualities.

Spain wouldn't leave me because I didn't remember us... would he?

I mean... I'm his _"little tomato"_... right?

He... he would want to help me get better, help me remember...

Because through all my experience with Spain, _(minus 152 years,)_ he's never been one to give up when it comes to _anything_ concerning me.

...right?

I still wasn't certain about Spain, but I knew that America's ranting was beginning to throw me off.

What the hell was he talking about now?

"...and all the Italian immigrants I have in America... Don't you want a better bond with your people?" he was saying, and I realized he was looking desperate all of a sudden.

"_No_, bastard," I snapped, effectively startling him and cutting him off. "And if that were reason for a relationship, I'm pretty sure you would have been in one with Mexico a long time ago. What do you really want? Because it's sure as fuck not me."

"Shit, you are good," he cursed, running a hand through his hair and sighing. "Alright, you got me. I want you to pretend we're dating so I can make Iggy jealous as hell!"

"...you want to make England jealous." I repeated.

"Yeah!" he beamed. "Dude, I've seen enough romantic movies- you _can't_ compete with a lover with a medical problem. They have the _sympathy_ _advantage_!"

...

I love how he talks about these things like they're _real_.

...

Wait... medical problem?

_Hey!_

"Fuck, I do _not_ have a medical problem, I-"

"Will you do it?" he begged, literally getting down on his knees and shooting what he must have thought looked like a kicked-puppy look at me. "_Please_, Italy Romano? I'm desperate! And you can make Spain jealous of you, just in case he doesn't actually want to be in a relationship with you, and then he'll want you back! And I'll get Iggy because he'll be furious I'm with you!"

"What the fucking flying fuck?" I exclaimed. "Spain already wants me to be in a relationship with him again! He called me his _amor!_ I don't need your fucking plan! And- and even if I did, I would **NOT** sink that low!"

...okay, _maybe_ I would...

But _he_ doesn't need to know that, dammit!

"Aw, fuck," he moped, slumping to the floor with a dejected sigh. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt, and then rubbed something out of his eye with the back of his wrist. "I was... really _hoping_ you'd be a pal and help me with this..."

"No." I deadpanned.

Standing, I stepped over him and right out of the bathroom, and practically right into France's arms.

And then I screamed.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

"Ah, bonjour, Romano," France sighed, opening his arms to let me scramble away from him when I started struggling.

He was gonna rape me, then I was gonna die inside, and I would lose my vi- did I already lose that? Shit, I'd have to ask Spain. But then I'd tell Spain, and Spain would kill France, and-

...

Wait, _what?_

France... let me _go?_

"Fuckface?" I asked suspiciously, just to be sure it was actually him.

(You never know, dammit, maybe it was _Canada_! Or _Switzerland_! Or _Poland_! There are a lot of fuckers with long blond hair around Europe, okay?)

"Hmm," he grimaced weakly. "As you so charmingly call me, _oui_."

_Oui_.

Oh, he was France the fuckface alright.

Now...

Not that I care... because I don't...

But... he didn't look like **HIM** very much anymore. And to think... he'd looked a lot like himself just a few hours ago, at the hospital. For the obvious reason that he _was_ himself. You know... the French _fuckface_ look. Shining wavy golden hair, fucking perfect complexion, sparkly blue eyes.

But now he looked...

Unhealthy.

His hair looked a little stringier. Less wavy.

His eyes had no sparkle to them. There were light bags forming below them.

His skin was obtaining a more deathly pallor.

...fuck, he looked _sick_.

Really sick.

I... I kinda felt bad for the fucker.

But how did it get this bad after just the few hours I'd been around him?

And then America's shitty sense of timing kicked in, and he also walked out of the bathroom. And froze when he realized France was there.

"Ahaha, h-hey, that was the coolest shower _ever_, y-you were right, Romano!" America laughed nervously. And then, as though he'd just realized France was there at all, added, "Oh, hi France, what are you doing here?"

"Trying to use the bathroom, _Ameríque_," France sighed, rubbing a hand absently against his temples.

"O-Oh," America's forced smile seemed to fall right off his face when he realized just how awful France looked, and he stepped out of the other nation's way quickly.

France flashed us both a trembling smile, before clutching his stomach, and stumbling into the bathroom. He lurched over the toilet bowl, and noisily lost the contents of his stomach.

"Oh," I breathed, watching him for a few seconds, my own stomach twisting uncomfortably at the sight before me.

America closed the door quietly, giving France his privacy, before walking off quickly, his eyes downcast.

I followed his lead, shooting just one backward glance towards the bathroom door, through which the retching sounds still echoed.

My stomach was twisting in a knot of guilt, and I felt obligated to tell England where his boyfriend was, at the very least.

I cut through the dining room and reentered the sitting room, only to find almost everyone in the same places as before. I'd thought that little escapade with America would have taken longer than it did... I guess not, though.

Then again that could be because these boring shits _never_ stop talking.

The latter sounds more likely.

And... I would have gone right over to England, to tell him about France, but Spain practically assaulted me as soon as I walked through the door.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain!**

"Lovi! Don't just wander off like that!" he exclaimed, hugging me tightly to his chest. "I was so worried! I saw you leave earlier, but you took so long, I thought maybe you had had another episode like the one in the van, and passed out somewhere! And you know how big my house is, it would have taken forever to find you!"

"Che palle, get off!" I exclaimed, struggling to be free of his grip. "I'm fine, dammit. I just had to... use the bathroom. Stop acting like my _mother_!"

"Ve, but Lovi, Big Brother Spain _is_ like your mother, right? I mean, he did raise you, after all!" Feli chirped from the black couch where he was sitting with Bella and Hungary.

"I'm _not_ going there now," I scowled, even as Spain released me to stroke his chin, clearly deep in thought about the matter.

I scanned the room, searching for England, and I found him by the kitchen door, chatting nervously with Russia about something.

I pulled my other wrist from Spain's hand and started in that direction while Spain interrogated Feli on whether or not he thought Spain had made a good mother for me.

England looked confused, but also relieved, when I pulled him away from Russia and into the kitchen, using a string of unintelligible Italian curse words as an excuse for his absence. He said nothing as I pulled him out the other kitchen door and down a long hallway I knew to be the quickest way to the bathroom I'd left France in.

"Er... What's all this about, Romano?" he asked hesitantly, not stopping me from pulling him down the hallway, but not making it any easier either.

"Your boyfriend looks like _shit_," I said, and observed the startled look that came over his features, "He went into the bathroom when I was coming out, and normally I wouldn't care, but he _didn't_ try to rape me, and then he started throwing up."

"He started _what?_" England exclaimed, green eyes growing to the size of saucers. "Bloody hell, where is he?"

_Oh, so _now_ he picks up the pace,_ I snorted mentally as a very concerned England reversed our places, and became the one tugging me down the hallway, so much that I had to hurry just to keep up with him.

Now... I know you're probably confused as to why I'm helping these bastards at all... (so am I, trust me,) and it's really _none_ of your business... (seriously, it's not...) but it's because I really felt bad for the fuckface.

I mean, I'm no fan of his.

Not by a long shot.

You all know this.

But when a nation is brought down by something like this, by something that can cause them to be sick like a human, you sympathize.

Because everyone's been through economic troubles before, everyone _gets_ it.

And it sucks, you know?

And... even though I probably have a reputation for being the biggest little bastard of a country, I have a heart too, (apparently, contrary to popular belief,) and I hate to see another nation try to deal with a sickness like that on his or her own.

I led England through the dining room and then one more hallway, and directed him towards the door to the bathroom France had been in before.

The blond nation distractedly nodded a thanks before slipping into the bathroom, and crouching beside the French nation still hunched over the toilet. I just watched the pair of them as England helped hold France's hair out of his face, trying it back with an elastic, and then flushing the completely disgusting contents of the toilet away so the Frenchman could throw up again. Quiet, tender words were exchanged, and England pulled France close to him, humming comfortingly.

Well, shit, now _I_ feel like a_ lonely_ bastard.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

I wandered slowly back towards the sitting room, taking spontaneous twists and turns but still keeping track of how to return to that particular room.

I was busy thinking about Spain and I, how that all would... work out.

He would want me back, I just knew it.

America was wrong.

Spain wouldn't leave me just because I couldn't remember all we'd had.

Whether or not **I** was ready to try our relationship again was a completely different story.

And... England and France... Gesu, that's what I wanted.

...

No not a threesome, you perverted dipshit!

I... I wanted someone to care for me like England did for France, and vice versa.

Did Spain do that?

Would he do that if I asked him to?

Would he do it if I didn't?

Was it different from France and England's relationship, because I used to be his colony?

I almost bumped into Russia once I was very near to the sitting room again, but he just smiled cheerfully _-murderously?-_ at me and asked where he was (I simply told him he was _lost_, dammit) before he accompanied me back to the sitting room (and the _exit- the _Russian bastard could _leave_, please and thank you).

He didn't try talking to me again, and I sure as fuck wasn't about to talk to him, so it worked out well that he was accompanying me back to the sitting room. And I probably would have wandered around for a lot longer if I hadn't stumbled into him, so I guess it was sort of a good thing.

By the time I (and my _creepy-ass-mother-fucking-become-one-with-me-da_ Russian companion) reached the sitting room again, (because it had probably been almost half an hour since I left England with France,) almost everyone was gone.

The only ones left were Spain, Feli, America, England and France, the latter draped over his British boyfriend's shoulder for support.

Spain was worrying over France's current state, and Feliciano was trying to enthuse about racing with America, but the bespectacled nation kept glancing over at France and England from time to time, a sour expression on his face.

"Goodbye, Italy Romano," Russia said, smiling at me as he started for the door. "Do have a drink of wine later, you look incredibly stressed out, da?"

"Uh..." I said, blinking several times in my confusion. "Da? Er, I-I mean... sure...?"

He waved, smiling at me as he exited the house, and I heard a little squeal and a scurrying sound I knew would be Feli running off to go change his pants- _again_. I sighed, turning to watch my little brother dart into the kitchen, dark wet spot on his pants and all, before turning to America to politely tell him to get the fuck out as well.

...would you look at that, I'm being a polite host.

Holy **shit**.

What's gotten _into_ me?

"Italy Romano, I really hope you consider what we discussed earlier today," America said, pointedly glancing at France and England again.

"No." I snapped, all polite-host-ness _(oh shut UP already dammit)_ fading instantly. "Get out."

"Ahaha, right-o!" he laughed loudly, as if I'd just made a joke, when he noticed England and France were done talking to Spain. "I'll see you around, _'Mano_. Can I call you 'Mano? Yeah? Well, thanks anyway!"

I just stared after him as he headed out onto the gravel drive, and then flipped him the bird for good measure. Spain chuckled, and when I turned to arch a cynical eyebrow at him, I instead came face to face with England.

"Thank you, Romano," he said sincerely, extending his free hand for me to shake. I took it gingerly and shook, nodding an awkward sort of 'of course' answer. "I probably wouldn't have found him if not for you. I know you don't like him, but..."

"I get it, tea-bastard," I sighed, removing my hand from his. "Just go on. It's fine. Go... take care of your wine-bastard."

He smiled a little and nodded, before helping the Frenchman out the door and down the drive.

Spain shut the door with a decisive click, before leaning against it and exhaling deeply. "Well that was fun, right Lovi?" he asked hopefully.

"No," I deadpanned, before hesitating at the upset look on his features. "But... it was OK."

"Alright, Lovi," he sighed. "Oh, by the way, Bella and the Netherlands will be staying here too... the Netherlands didn't put enough gas in his car and they can't drive home."

"Brilliant," I murmured, still thoroughly brought-down after witnessing France and England's fluff-fest in the bathroom.

"Everything okay, Lovi?" Spain asked concernedly, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah, everything's fine, tomato bastard," I lied, faking a smile and heading into the kitchen for a glass of wine, per Russia's suggestion. I fucking _needed_ it right about now.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

**A/N:** A little short(er than the last two, anyway), a tad bit filler-y (random walk with Russia at the end = enormous filler, but I had to have that there for reasons to be revealed next chapter), and a lot introductory. (Hooray side-plots!)

_NOW_! I have another task for you guys. No poll this time, because it's a pain in the ass for me to check it and I'm a lazy bitch who loves hoarding reviews. (XD Jk. Lazy bitch, _yes_, review-hoarding, _**no**_. I want all my reviews to be voluntary!) So: Romerica was hinted at in this chapter. (Lol derp America, I love him so much.) Now, I could begin some Romerica in the next chapter (Romano decides Spain might not still want to be with him, since he's so down lately, and Romano takes America up on his offer) OR save that for later, and instead just write an awkward chapter with more memory clips! Yay, memory clips!

Your choice, guys, because I seriously don't think I'll be writing while I'm in San Fran. _Romerica with a side of jealous Spain and Iggy_ or _awkward Spamano with memories in between. _And uh... I'm thinking there will be a little something-something involved with the first that might make Spain mad.

(XD... I hate plot bunnies so much. I was NEVER going this direction with this story when I planned it all out. I hate my plot bunnies. SO much. So very, very much.)


	8. Chapter 8 3

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia's not mine. Neither is Romano's wine bottle. However, his attitude towards cleaning is. (XD hooray for lazy-asses who don't like to clean!)

**A/N:** "YOU GAIZZZZZ! I'M IN SAN FRANCISCO! IT'S SO... cityish. Geez, I think our cab driver almost hit just about everything he passed. And right now I am about to DIE because it's Saturday at 7:52 pm PST, and it's bed time back home, and I've been going going going since 1:30 am PST. (over... a lot of hours, I can't count with this little sleep) But, I had a whole lot of NOTHING to do on my two flights over (two and four hours) and four and a half hour layover, so I wrote! If it's angsty... Well it should be. Four and a half hour layover. Oh, the headache that was. Haha that influenced the mood of this chapter a lot, and when I looked back like, "Can I make this happier?" I was like, nah, I LOVE this."

Oh yeah... And it was 7:52 PST on Saturday the 14th when I wrote this... and Saturday of the NEXT week when I finished it. (On a plane.) But I didn't post it 'cause my mom refused to let me tell ANYONE when we were going. And then _grounded_ me. So... I apologize for my lateness. READ ON!

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

Leaving Spain at the door, for no more malicious a reason than I simply had nothing else to say to him, I made my way into the kitchen, and pulled open the fridge to see if there was a bottle of wine already opened. I didn't immediately see an open bottle, so I just tugged the nearest one out of the fridge and tore the cork out with my teeth, before realizing there was a half-empty bottle sitting behind it.

I shrugged, uncaring, closing the fridge again. I didn't even bother to get a glass to put it in, I just sat down at the kitchen table and nursed that fucking wine like a baby, after taking one long swig. A red... some recent year that I didn't particularly care about, because FUCK quality wine, I just wanted to get drunk, dammit.

"Are you sure you're alright, Lovi?" Spain asked, pausing at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the doorway. "You seemed kind of... upset after a while."

"I _WAS_ upset, dammit!" I snapped, hugging the bottle to my chest for support. "I... I don't know what's going on in the world! I don't know why everyone has _changed_ so much! It's freaking me out, and you didn't explain it, you just let them all come and _chit chat_, and do you know what? They weren't even here for _me_, Spain. They were here for _you_!"

He looked appalled, but I continued ranting, even if only so that I could get this all off my chest. "The wine bastard and tea bastard- they don't _like_ me! And America? Firstly, holy SHIT he got big! Secondly, who the fuck brought _him_ anyway? And Prussia _hates_ me and Canada's nice enough, but he doesn't _know_ me! Hungary just wanted more pictures for her _porn_ collection, Austria got dragged with her, and Russia's just a creepy bastard who doesn't even respect me as (half) a nation! Bella's the only one who _might_ care about me, but the Netherlands came with her, and he's just an ass to everyone!"

I took another long swig of wine, before slamming the bottle back on the table, and looking back up at Spain.

His head was hung, and his arms, previously crossed, now hung limp at his sides. "I'm sorry Lovi," he said dejectedly, "I didn't know that's how you felt about it..."

"Yeah, that's how I felt about it, dammit! I don't like your friends! I can see _that_ hasn't changed much in the last 150 years! And do you know what has? EVERYTHING **ELSE!**"

"I'm _SORRY_, Lovi!" he shouted, slamming his fist into the door frame. "I'm sorry, alright? I didn't know! I just thought everyone was trying to wish you well! I thought it would be _nice_! Alright? This is hard on me too, you know!"

"_Dammit_, Spain, do you think I don't _know_ that?" I screamed, gesticulating wildly with my hands, wine bottle and all. "I _do_, fucking damn it all! But do you know what? **I'm** still the one who lost his fucking memory! Not you! And you can't possibly... Cristo, you have no _idea_ how it feels! None! It fucking sucks balls!" I paused to take a breath, (because, HELL, could I rant when I wanted to,) and then continued. "Spain, you don't seen to... understand this. I don't know world history anymore. I don't know _my_ history or _your_ history or fucking _anything!_ I don't know what the Euro crisis was, I don't know what went wrong with your economy, and I don't even know what kind of government I have. It's just a _little_ fucking hard on me, _alright_?"

"I **GET** IT, LOVINO!" he roared, spluttering and spinning in a circle, tearing at his hair, trying to find a way to vent the raging energy I'm sure matched my own at the moment.

Even though his yelling and stomping had yet to do it, I froze when he called me Lovino instead of Lovi.

He'd been pulling that shit since I was just a little kid.

It was always Lovi.

Lovi this, Lovi that, Lovi _mi tomate_.

_Never_ Lovino.

"I get it, alright! Just- just stop _bitching_ at me about it! 'Oh, I lost my fucking _memory_, now I get to complain even **MORE** than fucking usual!' Will you give it a fucking break? I'm doing the best I can!" he finished, panting and glaring at me in a manner I couldn't ever remember seeing Spain glare at anyone.

It held me frozen in fear for a moment, but then I got my breath back in a rush of anger and hurt. "WELL APPARENTLY IT'S NOT FUCKING **GOOD ENOUGH**, SPAIN!" I shrieked. "AND DO YOU KNOW _WHY_ I'M COMPLAINING MORE THAN USUAL? BECAUSE I CAN'T FUCKING _REMEMBER_ 'USUAL'!"

With the last word, I flung the wine bottle towards him, not thinking about consequences at all, just acting on the raw fury driving me to keep shouting at him.

He ducked, with the agility only someone truly used to executing such maneuvers would be able to. Maybe to him it looked like an arrow from the French, or a cannonball from England.

Because the way he dodged that shit...

Well... while I suck at many things, I've got a fucking good aim.

The wine bottle hit the wall behind him, and smashed there, sending droplets of red liquid and shards of glass flying all over the room. Most of it rained all over Spain's head, and his previously-clean white shirt, quickly turning it pink and showering his shoulders in glass.

The sound of shattering glass seemed to break something inside of me, and I crossed the thin divide from anger to upset, because really, was there a difference between the two? The room remained deathly silent but for my now-ragged breathing, and Spain's quickened breaths, which were barely audible compared to my own unattractive gasps.

He looked up after a second or two, eyes wide, to find me standing now, tears streaming down my cheeks. I blinked at him once, and remorse began to flood into his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, reaching out to me, but I shook my head, running from the room before I could really crash and burn.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...**

Half an hour later found me lost sufficiently deep enough in Spain's house to have let my anger out, and under the covers in a room I didn't remember, with the broken remains of more antique Spanish vases surrounding the bed. Tears of anger and frustration had already drenched the pillows, so I had to settle for resting my head on the blankets when I finally calmed down enough to consider sleep an option.

I was just... so done.

So done with this bastard and his fucking expectations.

What did he think, I would be able to just go back to being his l-lover again?

Did he think I could just remember the last 152 years like fucking magic?

Because...

I wished it worked that way too, but it didn't.

Spain expected a lover...

I expected an older brother or cousin or... father or something!

I don't know, dammit!

I just knew that I definitely wasn't prepared to take Spain on as anything like a lover yet.

If there was just some way to make him understand this... see this from my perspective!

Spain's been through a lot of shit in his day, but this isn't something he's experienced.

It seems so small, when you say it.

Amnesia.

That's because you're not _experiencing_ it.

Imagine not being able to remember the last _five years_ of school, your friends, your relationships, but still know everything you learned there.

Imagine learning to ride a bike, swim, run, throw a javelin, ANYTHING- and know how to do it, but not remember where you learned or who taught you.

Imagine waking up, expecting to be in Italy with your brother, fighting a rebellion for your independence... and waking up instead over a century later with your caretaker claiming to have been in a relationship with you, and all of the world's history eluding you.

It's... It's hard, alright?

And I can't scrape up another _ounce_ of sympathy for Spain while I'm still missing most of my history -national and otherwise.

At first... yeah, I felt bad for him, but there was nothing I could do! I had no memory!

What, did he want me to pretend to remember? No, I didn't think so.

And surely he didn't expect me to just make a miraculous recovery.

Because my bones were healing quite nicely... my memory? Not so much.

Quite frankly... I think a big part of why I'm so upset with him now is just that he's being his oblivious self without being his happy self at the same time. Happy and oblivious. That's Spain. Well, after his pirate days anyway.

He was too oblivious to realize I wouldn't want all the other nations practically swarming me the day I got out of the hospital, too oblivious to think that maybe it was a lot harder for me to cope than I let on, and yet...

He looked so down in the van. And again just before our argument.

It's like he's upset it's happening... but he's making me feel like its all my fault this is happening at all.

It's... not my fault.

The amnesia or the fight, I suppose... Or, no... The fight, I guess.

I... I refuse to accept that it is.

Because do you know what?

_I'm_ the fucking victim here.

_I'm_ the one who got hit by a car.

_I'm_ the one who lost his memory.

_I'm_ the one who can't remember his relationship.

And none of those things are _my_ fault either.

Holding that notion comfortingly in my chest, I finally fell into a deep sleep, more from exhaustion from the day's events than because I deserved it.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

_...And with that I tore my hand back from my Spanish companion, and stormed on ahead of the pair of them through the lot. _

_I didn't need anyone holding my hand, dammit. I was fucking old enough by now, and if I wasn't by Spain's books, well hell, I sure as fuck looked it! _

_"Lovi, wait!" Spain exclaimed, and seized my shoulder, effectively stopping me from walking out from the shadow of a mini-van. _

_I struggled against his hand instantly, slapping it off of my shoulder and shouting, "Get the fuck off of me!" _

_In the next instant I whirled around to step back out from behind the shadow, when I was stopped by a rush of air as a sleek black car went whizzing past me. The gust of air blew so hard, it actually sent my curl bouncing over to the other side of my face in the after-draft, and tore open my unbuttoned suit jacket. _

_So enraptured in my little self-confidence boosting mental session, I hadn't noticed a car pulling out of the parking lot, and coming towards me, very quickly. _

_Stupid American fuckers! Drive slower in the parking lot, dammit! _

_"_Fuck_," I muttered, starting forward again after a few seconds, and looking both ways this time. I sped up my pace again, disregarding the undeniable shaking in my legs. _

_A collision with that car wouldn't have killed me, certainly, but... it would have hurt like a bitch, and I might've been in the hospital for a... a long time. _

_"Lovi," Spain said, catching up with my quickened pace as we reached the entrance to the lobby. _

_I frowned to myself for an instant. I mean, not that I wasn't _grateful_ he hadn't just saved my government some hospital bills, but Spain wasn't sounding at all like himself today. He was always happy; _always_. Even when I broke things, or Feli said something blatantly rude, or the tea bastard was pissing him off. Always happy. (Too fucking happy, if you asked me, but whatever.) _

_The point was, he was always happy. In fact, the only times he had ever been truly unhappy in my presence had included his return from that terrible loss to England, and maybe that one time I peed on his floor when I was really really little. _

_He was acting a little bit off today, no doubt about it. There was no cheerful smile when he woke me up at the corner across from Walgreens, and no exclamations of how like a tomato I looked when I was blushing after Feli's awkward sex-question. _

_But... I mean... _

_What the crapola was _I_ supposed to do about that? _

_**\(^.^)/ - Spain.** _

_I managed to get inside the first set of doors before his hand closed on my shoulder again, and he spun me around. I slapped it off as soon as I could, just as in the parking lot. _

_Ugh, now I owed the bastard... once again. Fuck. _

_Feli passed the both of us by in favor of greeting Japan, who was in the middle of the lobby. _

_"Take your meds!" I shouted after him, but he just waved over his shoulder in response. Stupid bastard. _

_"I know you wanted to have a night to relax, which I don't understand at all because frankly you relax all the time, amigo..." Spain said, and I graciously decided to ignore that remark, and let him finish his thought. "But I think you've forgotten that there's a night meeting tonight. Meaning you won't have any time to yourself until tomorrow night. That's when the last meeting ends." _

_"Merda!" I exclaimed, slapping a palm to my forehead in frustration. "Che cazzo, stupid American bastard, is it too much to ask for a break between these gatherings of the demons?" _

_"But Lovi, we just had an entire day off..." Spain interjected quickly. "You just happened to waste most of it sleeping..." _

_"Vaffanculo, Antonio!" I cursed as I pushed past the second doors, and began to storm through the lobby. _

_"You said my name!" Spain gasped, his voice returning to its usual happy tone. "Oh, mi Romanito, you do care about me! And how cute, now you're blushing! Your face looks just like a tomato!" _

_Now _that_ was the tomato bastard I knew and loved. _

_Wait... what? _

_However, before my startled brain could process the facts that Spain was back to normal and I had just unconsciously admitted I loved him, he very unceremoniously GLOMPED me. _

_In the middle of the lobby. _

_With everyone watching. _

_(Including China, who I think was still glaring daggers at me over that mental China-products-suck comment from before! Shit!) _

_And proceeded to coo over how like a tomato I looked now, and how precious I was, and how I really did care about 'Boss' Spain. _

_I proceeded to elbow him and get in the elevator alone before he could catch his breath. _

_The elevator was nice, I observed. All... Elevator-y and shit. And that elevator-y music. That was nice. I could focus on how much I hated it instead of what had just happened. _

_It was a... reflex, I tried to tell myself. _

_I was only a little worried that he'd been smoking the Netherlands' shit, and was in withdrawal or something now. _

_With all that freaky non-Spain-like unhappy shit. _

_And... I was just pleased to see he wasn't high. _

_Because that could be dangerous to... Feli. _

_That's right. _

_..._

_Okay, it sounded like a half-assed excuse to me too. _

_We shall never speak of this again. _

Never_. _

_Capisce? _

_**\(^.^)/ - Spain.** _

_Thank God, that damn meeting didn't start until 6. It was still only 3 in the afternoon. _

_Well, screw normal eating habits, I was hungry and I was making myself a damn pizza. _

_It would take an hour or so for the dough to rise anyway. _

_And I would enjoy it, dammit. _

_Feli had actually managed to get the shit I needed, too. Surprise, surprise. Chigi, well I wasn't complaining. The yeast, the bread flour, the olive oil, and both the salt and sugar; it was all here. And naturally, everything I needed for the tomato sauce, the best part of the pizza pie. _

_There is NOTHING better in this world than an Italian handmade pizza pie. _

_Then again I brought myself up on this amazing shit, so I might be a _little_ biased._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...?**

When I woke up the next morning, (read: jerked bolt upright in bed, in a cold sweat, at 12:59 pm and whimsically wondered why the fuck I could never finish a memory) I decided I'd been a little shit to Spain yesterday, even before our fight, and I at least owed it to him to clean up the wine bottle's mess. I got out of bed (read: worked my way out from the tangled mess of blankets I had hidden in all night,) and neatened up the room a bit (read: almost impaled my foot on the glass shards of the former-vases I hadn't cleaned up last night, cursed loudly, and brushed them under the bed) before heading down to the kitchen to get cleaning shit (read: bleach, a cloth and a broom, because Spain's walls were white anyway, and so far as the glass went, I could just sweep it somewhere Spain never went) and get to work.

I stopped first at the closet I remembered Spain to have left cleaning tools in before, and pulled out everything I thought could be of use. There was a dustpan and a bunch of rags, and I did find a container of bleach. There was no broom though, and after searching another five closets, I gave up, resolving just to use a rag or something.

When I reached the kitchen, I found the light still on, and the glass still all over the tile floor. There was a huge pink splatter stain on the white wall by the doorway into the sitting room, and it had dripped over the few hours I slept, now getting darker as it ran in stripes down to the wooden strip at the base of the wall. Spain was sitting in a chair but his arms laying splayed across the kitchen table, hair a mess and the glass shards from on his shirt now scattered across the tabletop.

I scowled at his carelessness, before brushing the glass on the table into the dustpan with my hand. My left arm had been broken in the crash, but a week later, it was almost healed, enough so that I could hold the dustpan without issue. There was one stubborn shard left wedged in a large crack in the worn wood, and I brushed my hand along it a few times, trying to unstick it, but instead only managing to create a gash a good centimeter long along the side of my palm.

I hissed, pulling my hand into my body and dropping the dustpan with a clatter, before inserting the bleeding area of skin into my mouth and sucking. A grunt (it totally _WASN'T_ a fucking squeal, dammit) of pain escaped my mouth around my hand, but since even the dustpan hitting the floor hadn't woken Spain up, this didn't accomplish the feat either.

Well... I see his sleeping habits haven't changed.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

I managed to get the rest of the kitchen relatively back to normal, before I finally collapsed into a chair next to Spain. It was already 4:30, but I felt accomplished, at least.

The stain on the wall was now just a few speckles of pink, on a wall slightly disintegrated from the intensity of the bleach I'd used (it had been a _while_ since I cleaned, okay?) and a little bit whiter than the rest of the wall. I got the piece of glass that had cut my hand out of the crack in the table, and thrown it, along with the rest of the glass from the table (and Spain's hair... I picked all that glass out too) in the garbage, versus a closet or cupboard. (So I'm lazy... sue me.) The glass on the floor was the biggest pain in the ass.

Or... more accurately, pain in the hand. Because even with rags wrapped around both my hands, well, I'm a klutz, and nothing can stop me from fucking cleaning up in some way.

Because while I was sweeping it all up, I fell over backwards and had to catch myself on the floor, and embedded about five shards of glass into my palm.

And... I only got three of them out.

But, despite the bodily harm the cleaning caused me, (and the negative effects that bleach might have on me... it's not bad to smell bleach, is it?) I felt better for doing it.

The memory dream definitely helped me swallow my pride, I think, even if it was randomly unfinished. Any memory I have of Spain, (especially one that seemed so recent like this latest chain of them did,) helped me take a sort of calming breath in regards to this whole amnesia situation.

(Shut up, it makes sense to _me_.)

And... since it was so absurdly early in the morning, I just laid my head on the table next to Spain and fell asleep there, because _dammit all_ my hand hurt, and it was 4 something in the morning and **SCREW** beds, I wanted to _sleep_.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

...And rather reminiscent of the memory when Spain woke me up across from that intersection back in Connecticut, I woke up some time later to his voice, although it didn't sound as though he was talking to me. And why couldn't I feel my hand...?

"Gracias, Belgium," Spain started to say, before Bella cut him off.

"I didn't do it for you, Spain, I did it for Roma." she said coldly. "He's an adorable klutz, and I'll patch him up whenever he needs it. You, however, lost that privilege when you lost me."

I raised my head and looked around groggily.

When Spain lost Bella?

As a colony?

Hell if I remember when that was, but why does she sound so angry with him?

I saw Spain and Bella standing by the doorway opposite the sitting room, Bella glaring at the Spaniard, and Spain just looking at the floor guiltily. But then he seemed to have noticed my shift in position, and he glanced up at the table, and realized I was awake.

"M-Morning Lovi," he said shakily, attempting a cheerful smile. I just blinked at him, not exactly sure if he was trying to forget the events of last night or what.

"Hello, Roma dear," Bella smiled in my direction, the nasty snarl on her features from before gone now, and she offered me a dainty wave. "Feeling better?" I nodded, not trusting my voice to say a word after the screaming and the crying of the night before.

"Lo siento, Lovi," Spain said after a moment's hesitation when I didn't say anything. "I... I didn't mean what I said last night! I really didn't! I was just so tired..."

"It's okay, tomato bastard," I muttered, flexing my fingers and conveniently watching their movement instead of his reaction. "I... forgive you."

"Oh, thank you Lovi!" Spain exclaimed, rushing to my side and wrapping his arms around my waist. "I'm sorry, I won't yell at you again, I promise!"

"Yeah, yeah," I murmured, my hands finding their way into his hair and stroking his head as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

We sat there for a moment, just being comfortable in each others presence, until I heard a tiny coughing noise, and I glanced up. Bella locked eyes with me, her olive green irises boring into my own mixed color eyes with an intensity, trying to convey a message.

_Meet me later,_ she seemed to be saying. _We'll talk_.

I nodded almost imperceptibly, and I knew she understood when she slipped around the doorway and disappeared into Spain's corridors. Meanwhile I just pulled Spain closer to me and hugged him tighter, trying to wish away the previous night's existence and pretend we were still alright.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain...**

**A/N:** Yeah... A fight. And then it got resolved. Kind of a bit of a filler chapter, I realize, but CHRIST this was hard to write.

On another note... I know I didn't mention this before, but there is a past USUK in here. So Alfred wants to win Arthur BACK from France. It'll come up again in the flashbacks, I promise lol. Next chapter (Christ knows when it'll be finished~) should probably be Bella and Roma's chat~!

But... Yeah, working on this is hard because I'm so stressed now we're back from vacation. (San Francisco was AMAZING! Oh and you guys can expect a PruCan oneshot sometime soon ;D me and my Gilbert made up and were texting all week.) Seriously, it was so fun. (All my acne even went away, I had so little stress :D) But now that we're back, I can't sleep right and my stomach is all messed up. I'm SO stressed cause soon I have a TWO HOUR driving session with my driving instructor and I HAVEN'T DRIVEN SINCE OUR LAST SESSION THREE WEEKS AGO. So screwed. I don't know how to park and I can't figure out a Y or K turn for my life. And on top of THAT I have four books to read! And journal entries to write on them! And a LOT of essays to do! And it's JULY! I'm so fucked!

Yeah... I've also realized you guys may not like all this personal rambling. But um... I feel a lot better when I can put it down somewhere, you know? I always _love_ reading A/N's, unless it's like, "_So, um, yeah, please review_!" ...so don't hate me please. XD

Also... since I'm now phone-grounded (and that's where ALL my drafts are) I'm gonna have to start the next chapter soon but not necessarily TOO soon. Because I don't have my phone. And when I'm on the computer I can only be "on facebook". XD Thank you fanfiction for having a blue bar at the top. So uh... I'll try to get that out ASAP but no promises~! Love you guys~!

**Also**: Okay... Belgium. (If you hadn't figured it out yet, I'm setting her up as having dated Spain in the past.) Does she get someone in this fic, or not? I don't really care either way, but it's another sub-plot you all can vote on~! I'm pretty sure there are almost 40 of you little follower peoples now, so I expect some votes!

**AND STILL UP FOR VOTING** is the RoMerica issue. I know two of you (out of the five who voted -_-) DIDN'T want it, but I swear, if I put it in, they'll be just like friends with awkward moments. And I want to see it happen because I think it could be ADORABLE. But I need your guys' opinions! Seriously!

**Awkward extra A/N:** Yeah... I can only post one poll at a time... and right now I have the RoMerica one up, (but that's subject to change, naturally,) so can you guys maybe vote for who you want Belgium to end up with in reviews? So far I have one FraBel vote, which means an ending with either single!Iggy or USUK. Anyone want something... specific? Like... I dunno, RusBel (Sunny Day in February's favorite), NethBel, BelBel (that's just me suggesting crack XD) or I dunno, like... AmeBel or something. PLEASE vote, you guys? I don't know what to do with her. She's awkward.


	9. Chapter 9 30

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia, Romano, Spain, Belgium and oregano all don't belong to me. Yay, oregano. (THAT STUFF SMELLS LIKE A PIZZA, I SWEAR. IT'S SO GOOD.)

* * *

"He was gay on you for _years_, sweetie," Belgium shrugged, placing a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of me at the kitchen table, and setting her own down across the table, taking a seat behind it.

If I had had any liquid in my mouth at that particular point in time, I would have spit it out.

As it was, I managed to jab my own hand with my finger as I jolted in surprise at the news.

My palm was still sore from the glass shards from much earlier that morning, but by the time I had finally managed to get Spain to leave (I told him we needed oregano and I wanted to make pizza tonight, so he had to go get me some… And he acted _really_ weird about it too. Hell if I know why that was. I made a mental note to ask someone what that was about later.), it had already begun healing.

Klutz I am, I should _probably_ appreciate the healing capabilities of my body more than I do.

BUT! There were more important things to be discussed than my own lack of coordination; I'd demanded to know what (_the fuck;_ it's amazing what two extra words can do for your tone) had gone on with Bella and Spain in my blank period, and she was explaining.

"I think everyone knew it but me. No, I knew it too, I just didn't want to admit it," she sighed, before smiling weakly. "Aren't you making pizza for dinner tonight, Roma? I love your pizza."

"Focus, dammit!" I snapped, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead as my vision swam for an instant. "I want to hear about you and Spain. Flattery gets you nowhere."

Dammit.

Stupid vision.

Stupid brain.

Stupid amnesia.

Fuck this shit, I want more wine.

Is this another memory coming on, or a concussion?

"Ah, I beg to differ," Bella smiled, tapping a dainty finger on the tip of my nose, before leaning back in her chair, and growing serious once more. "Well… Are you sure you want to hear this from me, sweetie?"

"Why not?" I demanded, frowning. "He didn't beat you or anything, did he?"

"Oh, God no!" She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in shock. "That would have been awful! But we both know Daan never would have let that happen, and besides, what happened was entirely my own fault."

"Then by all means, please explain," I said, gesturing with one hand for her to continue, and taking a sip of the drink before me.

"Alright, Roma," She sighed, running a hand through her hair, and adjusting her green hairband before she started her story. "Well… We started dating in 1970. It was right after an issue with a Belgian-owned power company that powered a large section of Spain, which in the 60s was penalized by the Spanish government for being a foreign-owned company. My people wanted to sue Spain for their losses in the stock market, but there was something in the clause that actually linked it back to Canada, and my people weren't compensated for their losses."

Boring. But hey, every relationship starts somewhere, right? I really just wanted to know how it ended so badly, but I was the listener, so I'd sit through whatever it was she wanted to tell me.

"Well Spain felt really bad about it, because he couldn't do anything about what his leaders were doing politically, so he started spending more time with me, taking me out to see the sights of Spain again, just simple things. But then it was out to lunch and out to dinner, and it was getting hard for me, because I had always loved Spain more than I probably should have." She paused giving me a thoughtful look, lips pursed. "You always were his favorite, I should have seen it a lot earlier than I did. I stayed with Spain when Daan left, but I don't think he was ready to fight Daan for me even if I had tried to leave. He fought Turkey for you, though."

I looked down, ashamed by the sentimental, time-worn smile she was giving me. That much I knew to be true… I knew Spain liked me best, but I never really knew why. I could have told Bella as much if I had known what she was doing. When I was little, it probably would have been because I wouldn't want her to steal Spain from me.

But if they didn't get together until 1970, what had _I_ thought about it?

"Well one night out at dinner, Spain had a ring box in his pocket." Bella said, her hands clenched tightly around the mug, and a contemplative look in her eyes, as they stared unseeingly at the table between us. "Well, I thought it was a ring box anyway. I started crying when he didn't pull it out when he dropped me off at my house. He didn't know why I was upset until I told him what I had thought. It was so silly; we weren't even officially dating yet. My not-so-inner romanticist had decided that was a good time to jump to conclusions, and look where it left me. Crying on my own doorstep with the nation I loved utterly baffled as to what he'd done wrong."

That I could picture, and I tried to recreate it in my mind as I took another small sip of the beverage, which I had since identified as being made with real Belgian chocolate. I knew what Belgium's house looked like; I'd visited once around 1830. It was probably new by now, though. Spain's was sturdy and classic, but Bella's had been little more than a shack.

I imagined a generic house's front porch, a generic dress for Bella, and a generic suit for Spain, and placed some flowers in Bella's hands, and deemed it complete. Add in the tear streaks and the confused look for Spain, and… voila.

…yeah, I wish I hadn't done that. Dammit, now I was jealous of imaginary-Bella for the attention imaginary-Spain was giving her.

I-I mean, I was pissed imaginary-Spain had made imaginary-Bella cry.

That's it.

Shut up, Goddammit.

"I told him I thought it was a ring, and he looked so shocked. I almost laughed, I swear. The look on his face was enough to make me stop crying. It was like I'd kicked him or something. He didn't understand I thought we'd been on dates, and so I sat him down on the steps to explain it." She smiled, and twirled a spoon around in her mug, to stir up the chocolate from the bottom. "As soon as I finished, he showed me what it was; a gold cross necklace for you. That's when you were dealing with all those terrorist problems in Italy… and the _Golpe Borghese_ happened in 1970. Spain said he knew it was putting so much stress on you, and he thought maybe he could help."

I blinked, startled by the excess of information. Well this was new. Terrorism in Italy… and a gold cross from Spain? Was I-?

I put a hand to my chest, feeling for a cross, but found none, and glanced back up at Bella doubtfully.

"They probably took it off you in the hospital," Bella waved my half-formed question off, and took a rather large gulp of her chocolate. "You still wear it every day though. Maybe Spain has it. You should ask when he gets back from the market."

"Oh," I muttered, and dropped my chin into my palm.

"Well anyway, when he realized I'd thought we were already dating, he asked me out, right then and there." Bella's nose scrunched up, and her lips puckered as though she smelled something rank, as she said, "I should have figured right then he was just doing it for me. But I didn't. Alas, you can't rewrite history."

A heavy silence settled between us after that, and I hesitated, before blurting, "Well what happened next? You dated? How did you break up?"

"Ah," She hummed, blinking a few times, and pulling her mug in closer to her chest. "Well… yes, we dated. It lasted 30 years, so I suppose I should be pleased, but it didn't end well, Roma. I was passing through France to visit Spain as a surprise, for the new year of 2000, and I met France on the way through –Don't give me that look, he isn't so bad, Roma– and I told him I'd come back and celebrate with him on the way home. But when I got to Spain's house, he was nowhere to be found, and there was a note taped to his door saying he'd gone to check on "his little Lovi," and that if someone broke into his house they could have as many tomatoes as they liked, but that he really didn't want anyone to take his mixing bowl, because he only had one left."

I inhaled sharply at the words "his little Lovi," and got a nose full of chocolate liquid for it. Bella watched concernedly as I coughed for a few seconds, trying to stop the bothersome feeling in my throat, and finally I took another swig of chocolate to down it, and managed to get my breathing even. "I'm okay," I croaked, gesturing for her to continue.

But… that part about the fuck-face.

I didn't have a good feeling about that.

I hope that's not in there because…

Nah, it couldn't be.

Bella wouldn't…

No.

No way.

"Ah… okay, if you're sure," she said dubiously, but nodded and kept on. "Well… it was then I realized this had been happening for 30 years, and would probably continue for the next 30, and that I really ought to give up. He didn't love me like he was supposed to, as my boyfriend," she sighed, leaning her elbows on the table, and her head in her hands. "We kissed, but he refused to have sex –Oh don't look so scandalized– or even make out. He kept telling me it was because he was Catholic, but I didn't buy that for an instant. He hadn't been to church since before they started building the Sagrada Familia, that really big cathedral in Spain they still haven't finished. And he never proposed, either, so it wasn't as though he wanted to."

"So… you broke it off?" I prodded, feeling a little awkward that I had played such a large part in her unhappiness, but still not remembering anything she was talking about.

"No, I met up with France when I was driving home, and we had sex," she said simply.

…

Three, two, one…

…

Cue internal explosion.

_Ah, dammit, I knew it, I knew it I knew it I knew it! _

_Dammit, dammit, dammit! Mental images! Gross! Yuck! _

_I didn't need those! Really! Seriously! Shit!_

_Bella… and France?!_

"You cheated on Spain? With FRANCE?" I shouted.

"We… met up about once a month after that," She admitted sheepishly, toying with a lock of straw-colored hair between two fingers. "Ah, Spain found out in 2008. 'Francis is just giving me a massage,' only worked as an excuse about five times before Spain got suspicious. And when he walked in on us right in the middle of it, well… there was no explaining that away. He broke it off, but not before I could call him out on all those years of him neglecting me for… well, you."

"So it did end badly." I deadpanned. "Ugh, fucking wonderful."

"I-Is that a bad thing?" Bella asked hesitantly. "Am I part of some master plan of yours or something? I'd really like to know what it is before you try to make me kill someone again, Roma…"

"No! I- wait… I tried to make you kill someone? When…? No! Stop distracting me!" I spluttered, before draining the rest of my hot chocolate just to give myself a moment to think. "What about… you and France? You were never together, and now he's with the eyebrow bastard, so…"

"I'm single, and France is happy with England," Bella nodded, but pursed her lips afterwards. "And I'm sorry, Roma, I really am. I apologized to you before this as well, but clearly you don't remember that, so I'm doing it again."

"Oh…" I trailed off. "Um, thanks? I-I don't know why you should be apologizing to me for this…"

"Because you're dating Spain, of course!" she exclaimed, before clapping both hands over her mouth. She added, rather sheepishly, "Er, well, you _were_. When I told you exactly what happened the first time around you were mad at me for a good few months. Because I'd hurt 'your Antonio' and that was inacceptable. Something like that."

"O-Oh." I said simply.

There wasn't much else to say to that.

"My Antonio?" I asked after a moment's silence.

"Oh, you call him Antonio, sweetie," Bella informed me quickly. "You always call him Antonio. In fact, this is the first I've heard you call him Spain since I was dating him. Like how he calls you Lovi."

That explains why he looked so put out when I called him "Spain" in the hospital… shit.

…and in the middle of my processing all this new information, the phone rang.

_What_.

Fucking-

Goddammit all.

I. Will. Fucking. Murder. Whoever. Is. Calling. Sp…

Oh, wait… it's not even my house.

I'll just settle for being pissed at having my internal processes interrupted.

"Do you want me to get that?" Bella asked, after I glared at the phone for the first three rings, attempting to melt the plastic object into a puddle with my eyes. "…I'll get it." She said finally.

"Hello?" she asked, as she picked up the phone, and then promptly held it away from her ear, at about arms' length. "Veni! H-How wonderful to hear from you again!"

"_Ve~ Signora Belgium? Buongiorno! Is my fratello there? I want to talk to him please_!" Feliciano's voice blared out of the kitchen phone's speaker.

I face-palmed.

"Uh, yes, Roma's here!" Bella said cheerfully, after blinking several times in rapid succession in a vain attempt to acclimatize to Feliciano's volume. "Here, I'll put him on."

I watched as she pulled the spiral phone cord across the kitchen as far as it could reach (it didn't reach _me_, and I sure as hell wasn't reaching for _it_), and then gestured for me to get up to take the phone from her. I simply gave her a dead stare, hoping she'd get that I didn't want to talk to Feliciano at the moment.

No such luck.

She placed the phone on the counter beneath its receiver, and crossed back to the kitchen table, circling around it to come to my side. Two hands gripped the sides of my chair and propelled it across the smooth tile that made up Spain's kitchen, until I sat right beside the phone, still sitting innocently on the counter, through which I could hear Feliciano humming an Italian children's song on the other end.

"Dammit, Bella, I-" I started to complain.

"Talk to your brother," she growled. "I will **not** be on the receiving end of another eight hour lecture on how to make homemade pasta."

"…you could just hang up," I pointed out.

"He kept calling back."

"Oh."

"_ROMANOOOOOOOOOOOO!_" Feliciano wailed through the phone.

"DAMMIT, I'M HERE, WHAT?" I growled into the mouthpiece.

"_Oh!_ _Buongiorno,_ _fratello!_" my brother practically sang. "_I was just calling to say hi. And I wanted to know how you're doing! Germany said you'd probably broken something by now, so I wanted to check to make sure it wasn't something I gave you and Antonio._"

"When did you even have time to talk to the potato bastard?" I demanded, disregarding his mention of my clumsiness. "I thought he had meetings, and aren't you at a hotel? Did you go back to Italy yet?"

"_No, I'm at a hotel in Barcelona! It's so pretty here! Oh, and America told me I could teach him how to make real homemade pizza if I did, so I decided I should stay with him and England and big brother France!_"

"What the fuck are you doing with those morons?!" I exclaimed. "Dammit, I should have known the burger bastard would have tried something low like that, I…"

"_No, ve, it's so much fun~!_" Feliciano cheered. "_I'm also lecturing him on everything he does wrong in his mass-market pizzas. He made a halfway decent one just now! Only the entire _bottom_ burned _this_ time~! Ve, where's big brother Spain? Can I talk to him for a minute, fratello?_"

"What? No, Spain's not here, I told him to get more oregano, he's out doing that. I was going to make pizza but I can't find the oregano anywhere," I said, though I was fairly preoccupied by the information that Feliciano was making a pizza –or several pizzas, by the sound of it– with _America_. "Put the hamburger bastard on the phone, will you? I need to bitch him out."

"_Oh... you sent him out to get _oregano_...? Ve, that might not be good... I should call big brother Spain after this to ask how he's doing. Um, but anyway! Okay, ve~ Mister Alfred,_" Feliciano called, his voice sounding muffled, as though he was holding the phone away from his face to call to the western nation. "_Romano wants to talk to you, something about bitches and hamburgers!_"

...again with this oregano business... what?

But hey, wait a minute... Alfred?

"You're calling him _Alfred_?" I screeched. "What the fucking hell! _Feliciano!_"

"_Ve, here he is, fratello!_"

"_Italy Romano? Haha, I knew you'd see it my way!_" America's voice took the place of Feliciano's, at an even higher level of volume. "_So you're ready to become my bitch? That's cool, but I don't really do food kinks, so we'll hold off on the burger, 'kay? So I'll head back over to Spain's place for dinner tonight! We can make a pizza! You'll teach me! I'll come over extra early so we have enough time to do it! Feliciano says you're even better at making pizza than I am, but I'll bring little Italy too, that's cool, right? And I can tell France and England to come, because we have to get this plan __**enacted**__! I'll see you then, yeah? __**Hero out!**_"

"Wh-"

"_Love you too, 'Mano!_"

"NO, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, DON'T YOU HANG UP ON ME, YOU FUCKING OVERLARGE BURGER-EATING MOTHER-FUCKER…!"

_Click_.

...

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

"Shit."

So now I was supposed to teach the hamburger bastard how to make a proper pizza. How would I even…?

Ugh, more importantly, why wasn't this mother-fucking headache going away yet? And where was Bella? Slipped out during my conversation with Feli, did she?

Pizza tonight… ugh, does Spain even have enough bread flour for THAT MANY people?

Pizza, pizza, pizza… why does this keep coming back up?!

**\(^.^)/ - Spain…?**

_I got all the dough ingredients assembled around the stove top, and dug a bowl, a pan and a mixer out of the bottom cabinet of the kitchen's tiny corner counter. (I was Italian okay? I could be lazy about all the mixing by hand shit when I wanted to. Amazing pizza would come out of my work, regardless of how it was done.)_

_First I tested the water from the kitchen sink, to make sure it was warm enough, then dumped what looked to be the right amount inside the mixer. Next I poured in the yeast, and began to hum as I did so. It wasn't even cognitive anymore; pizza making came naturally, and I was happy when I did things well._

_I couldn't place a name to the tune off the top of my head, so I thought on it while I added the rest of the ingredients to the mixing bowl. I watched the stuff spin around and around in the metal bowl, and idly compared the rotation to my life. Around and around and around it goes, and always the same shit happens._

_Ugh, Goddammit all, I was becoming a sap._

_After that all was mixed, I decided to be a sentimental sap anyway and knead it by hand. I thoroughly washed the counter (no one likes weird shit in their food, dammit) and coated it with flour before dropping the ball of dough onto the surface, sending white flour up around me in a large cloud. I rolled up the sleeves of the business shirt I was still wearing, and got to work on the dough, pressing and shaping it the way I knew my best chefs to have done it._

_The same tune was still issuing from my mouth, and I frowned, trying to place it. It seemed homely; like I'd heard it as a baby or something. But that was unlikely, because that would have been a REALLY long time ago. Still, it was catchy as all hell, even if I didn't know where I'd heard it._

_I left the dough in the oven on 75 degrees Fahrenheit (what the hell is with that shit, what, Celsius wasn't good enough for the hamburger bastard?) after I deemed it acceptable and rolled it in olive oil, and then I sat my ass down to relax. Again._

_There was nothing else on the television, so I sat there for an hour and watched more American news, and made fun of their politicians and news anchors. Like a motherfucking boss. They showed some more about that snowstorm, though. Frankly, I wasn't concerned. I'd been in freaking Russia for a world meeting before; that place was like an icy hell-on-Earth. There was nothing some New England snow could do to deter me from getting back to Italy on time. Besides, I was planning on leaving on Saturday, not Monday._

_Aaaaaaaaaaaaand finally that damn dough finished rising._

_Or close enough, as far as I was concerned, because I was fucking hungry. I pulled it out of the oven, sliced it in half with a steak knife (because apparently we were out of bread knives; did I even want to know what Feli had made this morning?) and instantly went about flattening it; the Italian way. It took me a few more run-throughs of that mystery song, but FINALLY the dough was flat enough for me to start twisting it. I positioned my fingers around the edges of the dough, and flexed my arms once to make sure they weren't going to lock on me after I started._

_With an expert flick of my wrists, I had that motherfucking crust two feet in the air, and spinning like the Earth. Except you know, a lot faster. And shit. It looked cool, okay?_

_There was a vague awareness of a door opening, in the back of my mind, but I was a little busy being badass and flipping a pizza crust to really register it. Well, that and the fact that even my subconscious mind was busy with humming that weird-ass song still. And I could only focus on so much at once. AND my attention spam sucked in general unless there was food or sleep involved. Especially tomatoes. Tomatoes are good._

_Aaaaaaaaaaaaand my really long ranty analysis of my surroundings without really paying attention was ended abruptly when I was once again (For the second time that day! Seriously people, what the crapola!) unceremoniously GLOMPED._

_I gasped and cursed in the same breath ("Ahh- MERDA!") as the still-doughy crust fell onto the counter instead of into my waiting hands. Time slowed around me as my adrenaline kicked in, and I watched the dough drop in slow motion. Everything would have been fine, (except that bastard's face when I smashed it in for fucking up my pizza; I just bet it was the tomato bastard!) except for the fact that the dough half-landed on the bowl that had the other half in it. And the steak knife, which had been sticking out of the side of the bowl, went skittering across the (plastic, cheesy as fuck) counter towards me. I could only watch as it twirled end around end over the plastic surface, and then took a nosedive right off the edge._

_My reflexes tugged on my legs like puppet strings, sending a jolt of terror down my spine as I realized it was going to land on my foot. Blade end down or not, I couldn't possibly calculate in the amount of time I had left before it would land. And before I could back up far enough to feel secure that the knife wouldn't hit me, my feet hit my glomper's legs, and got stuck in place. A cold weight settled in the pit of my stomach as I observed the last few milliseconds of the knife's airtime, and then I screamed._

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

And of fucking course it stops there. Of course. Just confuse me beyond belief, that's fine. I don't mind. I'm getting used to it, dammit.

(FUCKING HELL THIS IS SO FRUSTRATING.)

Nope. This is fine. I'm good. Really. It's all good.

(WHY IS MY MEMORY SO FUCKED UP. WHY.)

There's not even a point to arguing against any of this anymore. I need enough ingredients to make pizza for… me, Feliciano, Spain, Bella, the Netherlands, France, England, and America.

With the amount they'll all eat… (fat-ass America, cheap-ass Netherlands, never-ending-pit-ass Feli…) that's probably four pizzas. Well, shit. No, we didn't have enough bread flour for that.

I placed the phone back on the receiver to make the dial tone stop, before picking it up again and dialing the number Spain had written on my arm before he left, in case I needed to call him for anything.

"_Hola? Lovi, is that you?_"

"Yeah, tomato bastard."

"_What is it, did something go wrong?_"

"No. …Spain? I'm gonna need two more bags of bread flour, one of the big cases of oregano, and some fresh garlic. America just invited himself –and England, and France, and Feliciano- over for dinner tonight. You might as well tell the albino bastard and Canada to come back over too."

"_Sí__, I know, Feli just called and told me… er, this will be interesting, no?_"

"Wow, inviting company over, Roma?" Bella asked, sounding surprised, from somewhere behind me in the kitchen. "That's good! It'll be so much fun! I'll help you cook, if you like! But not if Spain is helping."

"_I'll help, Lovi! But not if Belgium is going to. She's not, is she…?_"

"…er, no, America is," I answered the both of them at once, receiving one deafening silence for my trouble.

...

And then, in unison, "_**WHAT?**_"

…fuck my life.

* * *

**A/N:** Ahaha... um, so, so so so sorry for this REALLY late update. But hey, I was so rushing on all that summer work... and I got it all done! Yay me! But I've been having some problems with depression lately (you can go read Pancake Batter if you want to know/care at all...), so this was really hard to work on and be upbeat about.

But I got this finished, finally, and set up a FANTASTIC next chapter. I know just what I'm going to do, too~ Haha it involves pizza, wine, schemes and lots and lots of jealousy. Yaaaaay. Please review, they make me happy and happy me writes funny (and long) chapters. Yaaaaaay~


	10. Chapter 10 143

**A/N:** Yeah... sorry this is kinda late again. First few weeks of school... you guys know how that is. It's insane. And I've been dealing with even MORE than just the typical beginning of school stress. So here's my disclaimer: _Hetalia's not mine. At all._ Moving on. Enjoy the story, kay? I kinda took forever on it. More soon, I hope!

* * *

"_**AMERICA is helping you cook?!**_"

"_But Lovinito, mi tomate, don't you want Boss Spain to help you cook? W-We used to cook pizzas together all the time b-before your accident…_"

…and again, with the comparing the "now" me to the "before" me… ugh. How frustrating.

"What about Sissy Bella?! C-Come on, Roma, you know you love me… can't you just call him back and tell him he can't help because I am? Because I really need an excuse to avoid Spain, sweetie…"

Hm.

I don't like that Bella and Spain are at each other's throats.

And I don't really want to spend hours on end in a kitchen making pizza with Bella after hearing about her cheating on Spain with France.

That's just too much mental shit.

"_H-He makes market-style pizzas, Lovi, won't that upset you? Por favor, you taught me how to make pizza just the way you like it, I can help! I'll do better than he will!_"

Why does he sound so _desperate_…?

"You know how American food is, R-Roma, you should let me help! Belgian food is always high quality! D-Don't you want me to help you make the pizza, because America will ruin it!"

Well I want Bella to sort out her problem with Spain… and I want Spain to sort out his problem with Bella.

And Spain sounds awfully jealous right about now…

T-That's what the hamburger bastard was talking about, though, wasn't it?

Making Spain jealous so he'd want me even more.

…and it's not like I could stop America from coming at this point even if I'd tried.

And last night… that didn't go well.

Spain really didn't get it… and he keeps comparing me to the old me.

Maybe this'll show him I'm not the same me anymore.

Er… I am, but I'm not because I can't remember it…

Oh shut up, Goddammit, I give up, okay? I feel different.

I think.

I can't remember, so I wouldn't know.

DAMMIT!

Fine, let's make Spain jealous. I'm going all out with this America shit.

W-Well, not _all the way_, "all out," b-but you know what I mean, dammit.

"No," I said firmly.

"_N-No? Lovi, you can't be serious…_"

"What do you mean, no, Roma dear, haha, how funny, I'm laughing… what a good joke…"

"I-I said no, and I meant it, dammit. A-America is helping me cook tonight."

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

Spain got home with the groceries and sulked around the house after that. Bella just sulked around the house wherever Spain wasn't sulking. The Netherlands passed through the kitchen once, smoking. I arranged all my pizza ingredients and washed the counters, for lack of anything else to do, and because the tension in the house was driving me fucking _insane_.

America came over at exactly three in the afternoon.

With Feli.

In Feli's (hideous) yellow Fiat.

And he was driving it.

How he managed to convince my brother to let him drive… I will never know.

In fact… how he _fit_ in the God-damned _car_ I will never know.

America is a large personification… and that is one small-ass car, dammit.

But… the wine- and eyebrow-bastards were right behind them.

In another car.

A blue one, some kind of French model. And the abino bastard and Canada were there too.

I guess they were all staying in the same hotel, but America didn't want to be in the same car with England and France. Or there just wasn't enough room in England/France's car for all of them.

Which begs the question of why America thought it was such a fucking brilliant idea to stuff himself into a fucking _Fiat_ with my brother.

Well, anyway.

A-As soon as America stepped out of (read: _extracted_ himself from) the car, I seized him by the arm and pulled him into the house and the nearest room with locking doors so I could lecture him on the stupidity of this situation and what he was absolutely not allowed to do.

That happened to be a bathroom. (In fact, a very familiar bathroom with a bubble shower and secret passage somewhere in the wall to my left.)

Um… oops.

"Eager, aren't we?" America laughed loudly, as I closed the door behind us, and locked it.

"No, now shut up and listen," I snapped, pointing a finger threateningly at his nose. (_Che palle_, when did he get so tall?) "I decided I'll help you win back the eyebrow-bastard after all. I-I'm not doing this because I want to make Spain jealous, s-so don't you think for even a second that's why I'm going along with this. Because it's not. Because I don't care at all if I make Spain jealous! So you better not think that! D-Dammit!"

"Oh, no, I'd never," America grinned, patting me on the shoulder once. I pushed his hand off before continuing.

"I have some rules, dammit," I said, frowning up at him for no particular reason. "You don't touch me unless I touch you first. You DON'T touch anything below my waist, and you **DON'T** touch my hair curl. You _will_ lose your dick if you do."

"Um, ouch, haha…" America laughed weakly, shifting his legs more closely together in the confined space of the bathroom, and rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. "Right. That all?"

"No." I growled. "I'll… I'll call you by your human name, and you call me by mine. Or a stupid nickname or something, I don't really fucking care as long as it's not 'Mano.'"

"Do I get to call you Lovi, then?" America asked, brightening up instantly. …dammit, his eyes were pretty when he was excited. "What's that short for? Lovinus? I know your nation name is Italy Romano, because Feli's is Italy Veneziano…"

"I'm Lovino Romano Vargas," I said, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Feli's is Feliciano Veneziano Vargas. You can call me Lovino, Roma, or Romano, but don't call me 'Mano' and _don't_ call me Lovi."

T-That rule definitely isn't there because I don't want anyone but Spain to call me Lovi.

Noooooope.

Where did you get _t-that_ impression?

Well you should send it back wherever it came from.

Or to hell.

Because…

T-That's absurd.

Completely, and utterly… and absurdly… insane.

Yup.

S-So… stop it.

"Alright, alright," America conceded, holding his hands up defensively as I jabbed my finger at him again. "Roma, then. And you can call me Alfred, Al, or Alfie, but please, just _don't_ call me Freddie. England did that for a while until I told him how pissed it made me."

"Alfred is fine for me," I rolled my eyes at the list of nicknames the western nation was offering me. "Hell if I'm going to call you '_Alfie,_'"

"Okay then! Let's do this!" Ameri-_ALFRED_ beamed, but I saw something wavering in his smile, and a lack of excitement in his eyes. He adjusted his glasses nervously, and ruffled his hair into place like he wanted to make sure he still looked alright.

"What is it, burger bastard?" I growled, seizing his wrist to stop him from opening the door and barreling out into Spain's house somewhere. "You don't look so thrilled. If you're going to fuck this up because you're nervous, I swear…"

"It's nothing," he lied, blue eyes glancing quickly from the sink to the shower then the toilet and back, trying to focus on anything except me.

"It's _not_ nothing. Tell me, dammit, or I kick you out of this fucking house right now."

He hesitated a moment, before sitting on the toilet lid and resting his chin in his hands. "I'm just nervous," he sighed, looking up at me through his glasses as he tapped a foot against the tiled floor. "I don't want to make Iggy mad at me. Just jealous. I want him to leave that French bastard and come back to me. The reason we broke up was just so stupid, anyway, I…"

"Why _did_ you break up, anyway?" I asked, genuinely curious. "I remember you two having a weird kind of relationship even way back in the 1800s."

Amer-_Alfred_ glanced both ways as though someone could actually hear us in the bathroom, before whispering conspiratorially, "It was because we couldn't agree on the argument over unicorns versus zombies."

I just looked at him, unblinking. He looked right back.

Well _obviously_ unicorns are superior, because-

"Because zombies are superior, _obviously_…"

"You _idiot_." I deadpanned. "UNICORNS KICK ASS. And… wait, you broke up with him over an argument about _fictional creatures?!_"

"Well it's not just that!" he whined, sounding quite the immature brat. "He can't cook but I have to eat his food anyway because I'm supposed to be supportive and shit, and he has really weird kinks that usually take me a while to get used to, like that one time with this tentacle thing-"

"I _SO_ DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS! _GESU CRISTO!_" I shouted, pressing my hands to my ears to try to block it out.

(Too late; images of England, America, and a giant octopus were already invading my mind. Shit.)

"Yeah, it was so big and nasty and slimy, too…"

"Change of topic," I decided quickly. "Don't be nervous, idiota, everything will work out just fine. I know Spain, and I know how to make Spain jealous. And if I make Spain jealous, England will be jealous because he'll see that Spain thinks I'm being serious. And if I'm being serious, he'll know you're being serious."

…yeah, that made sense.

…making Spain jealous to make England jealous… Spain thinking… (Hah, good one.) America being serious… (Another good one. Damn, I'm on a roll…)

But it all made sense.

…

Wait, _I _made sense?!

Shit, let's throw a party.

Oh, wait. I already am.

One that almost every single guest invited _them-fucking-selves_ to.

"…I didn't follow a word of that, but I trust you, Italy Romano! Oh, um, I mean, _Roma_! Let's go!" he said, and with no further warning, dragged me by the wrist to the door of the bathroom, then out it, and into the hallway.

My face was red because I was furious he was tugging me around the house I had grown up in, which made it, in essence, MY house, (and the fact that dammit, I actually did make sense, I mean, come on, he didn't follow that amazing shit?!) and my hair was ruffled from being pulled off the shower wall, which I'd been leaning against, and about six feet out into the hallway, before abruptly crashing into Alfred's back, and having all the air knocked out of my lungs.

…I probably looked like I'd just made out with him.

W-Well shit.

"Idiot, what-?" I demanded, but was cut off as Alfred spun us around, pinned (read: slammed) me to the wall, and brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes with one hand, and covered my mouth with the other.

"Shh, don't speak," he whispered suavely –what the fuck, AMERICA is capable of this level of sexiness?!– and leant in like he was about to kiss me.

W-Which was against my very specific rules, d-dammit.

Honestly, at that point, I was a little too startled to react.

So I stood there, and Alfred was trying to kiss me, and…

"A-Alfred?" England's shocked voice resounded down the hallway.

The bespectacled personification pulled away from me to look down the hallway in the direction the voice had come from, saw England, (presumably for the second time, if the act he'd just put on was anything to go by,) and proceeded to blush furiously.

"Oh, England. I didn't see you there, bro," he said simply. "Um, we were just going…"

"Y-Yeah," I stuttered, shoving Alfred down the hallway _away_ from the seemingly shell-shocked island nation. (_No_ American Revolution the second, and not in _this_ fucking house, thanks much.) "Alfred was just going to the kitchen to help me with the pizzas. Y-You can make yourself at home! I just need a m-moment to compose myself."

And with that, I left Alfred to his own luck (hopefully England wouldn't kill him,) and closed myself in the bathroom again.

Because it just so happened to be the same bathroom I'd been in with America the last time he was over Spain's house… last night.

And it had a secret passage to the kitchen I could escape through.

But… after having seen England's reaction… second thoughts were creeping up on me.

Like Russia.

With a drain pipe extended and dangerous.

Creeeeeeeeeping.

Up on me.

What the fuck.

Why was that sketchy bastard even in my house yesterday _anyway_.

Okay, maybe it's not _my_ house.

But still.

Dammit.

What am I even…?

Second thoughts.

Right.

Um, I think I made my point.

Creeping thoughts.

And then I went about trying to open that passage, because hell if I was going back out into that hallway to see if Alfred had left for the kitchen or not yet.

…

Three broken nails and a stubbed toe later, I figured out there was a tile with a funny circular design on it that opened the shit for me, and pressed it, and then got hit (_Ow, ow, ow, pain, in pain, this hurts, Jesus Christ!) _in the side of the neck (what the hell, the side of the neck? Are you kidding me…?) with the section of the wall that did open, because some _dipshit_ put the button on the wrong side of the door.

And then I wondered why there was a button to open the door if Spain hadn't known about it when he renovated this closet into a bathroom extension… and then gave up and figured I didn't give a shit at that point anyway.

Then I got a face full of cobwebs, realized I needed to charge my fucking cell phone, and tripped over three different empty buckets because I couldn't see shit worth a damn.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain.**

After successfully (well, if you can call that a success…) making it out of the closet passage (read: CATACOMBS OF DOOM!), I made sure the panel was shut tightly behind me, and then slipped out of the kitchen closet, and into the kitchen, _praying_ it was empty.

"Romano?"

…

Well, shit.

The powers that be/are/_whatever the fuck you call them_ hate me, don't they?

"You just came out of the closet," the Netherlands' voice pointed out oh-so-fucking-helpfully.

"No shit," I deadpanned, turning slowly around to fix him with a glare I reserved just for him. (Stupid, cheap-ass, manipulative, money-hoarding bastard. I still haven't forgiven him for that fucking squirrel incident.)

"So is this like, your second coming out of the closet? 'Cause you did it before, only I bet now you don't remember that."

"It's really not a joke, Netherlands," I said evenly, while inwardly fuming. "I only walked out of a closet. I'm pretty fucking sure I'm gay."

"You're only pretty sure?" he prodded, tilting his head, and leaning back against the counter he was standing by. "That's kinda unfortunate. I'd hope you'd know what sexuality you were. I think I'm asexual or something. I just think the lot of you lack brains. Or common sense. Or both. Or I haven't been attracted to anyone yet."

"No, just little girls," I quipped.

"HEY! I…" Netherlands snapped, instantly going on the defensive.

"Boys, boys, boys," Bella's cheerful-sounding voice interrupted him, as she stepped into the kitchen, wearing a dark green cocktail dress (Trying to impress someone, much? I'll have to interrogate her on who she's dressed up for later…) and matching headband, with two white aprons in one hand, while the other was held up in a placating gesture. "Let's all get along. Daan, I actually want you to help me with something, and Roma will be cooking the pizzas with America in a moment, so you'll need to leave the kitchen."

"Fine," the Netherlands harrumphed, crossing his arms and frowning petulantly. "The bitch has to cook us all dinner anyway."

"You like insulting me far too much," I growled beneath my breath, and heard him snort as he passed me.

"Hell yes, I do," he muttered.

"Daan," Bella said warningly, glaring him out the kitchen door, and tossing the aprons at me. "Now… Roma, I want you to be careful, okay? America was brought up by England, after all, and we all know…"

"Feliciano was training him earlier," I interrupted her. "I'm sure he'll do fine. I won't let him burn the house down."

"Okay," she frowned dubiously. "But be careful about… _Spain_… too. He's not happy, Roma."

"Right," I agreed, trying not to show how elated I was at that news.

(FUCKING SUCCESS! ALREADY! _HELL_ YES!)

…

(I-I mean… oh, Spain's getting jealous? What a shame. I hope it's not _m-my_ fault…)

Insert innocent smile.

Smiiiiiiiiiiiiiiile.

Heheheh.

"…Of _course_."

She nodded once, before departing the kitchen, leaving me to roll up my sleeves and wash my hands so I could begin preparing the pizza dough.

I actually managed to do that in _complete_ peace and quiet (because everyone knows that is a HUGE rarity in THIS house…) before someone attempted to burst my eardrums once again.

This time, it just so happened to be America.

"ROMA~!" He exclaimed (loudly) from the back entrance of the kitchen, and I had only a second's (loud) notice –he walks loudly, dammit– before he glomped me (loudly- yes it can be done, dammit) and knocked me into the corner between two of Spain's counters.

"Get off me, bastard!" I shouted, struggling to remove his large –holy fuck, and I ask _again_, when did he grow so much?– arms from my waist, where they currently resided, and held me so that my back pressed against his chest.

Where I actually felt surprisingly comfortable.

…

Wait, did I just…?

Yeah, I did.

Shit, he was _built_.

I know this whole jealousy thing is fake, but…

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, his _abs_.

Hngh.

I'm _so_ gay.

"Haha, right, Roma, of course!" Alfred acquiesced, releasing me and letting me back away from him to brush off my apron for any lingering American germs.

…dammit.

I mean, uh…

Y-Yeah, bastard better let me go.

I was about to go all mafia on his ass.

(Shut up, dammit. Just shut up. Now.)

I threw the extra apron at his face, before promptly turning to the fridge, and taking out the half-empty bottle of wine I remembered from being there the night before.

I was really, really going to need it.

"So… are we gonna make a pizza, or are you gonna just chug that wine?" America asked dubiously. "'Cause I don't see anything wrong with wine, but if we're gonna have these pizzas anytime soon, we better get started…"

"Shut up, dammit. Go preheat the fucking oven. 232 degrees."

"Of course!" Alfred exclaimed, darting over to the oven, before pausing, and freezing where he was. He pulled his apron over his head –and got it caught on his Nantucket for a second, at which I cringed, thinking of my own curl, but it didn't seem to bother him– then fiddled with the strings, and continued to stare at the oven, completely at a loss. "Er…"

"Oh, give me that," I huffed, marching across the kitchen to his side and yanking the apron ties around his body to tie them in a neat bow at the small of his back.

"Th-Thanks," he muttered, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. "But um, the oven…"

"You don't know how to use a Celsius oven, do you?" I deadpanned.

He shook his head, and I sighed again.

"Go get the fucking dough ready. I'll do it."

"Haha, okay!"

A companionable silence descended over the kitchen as we worked, and I helped him make and stir the dough the right way.

(I was wrong, Feliciano hadn't been enough to stop his American-cooking tendencies. He still tried to take the half-assed way out whenever the fuck he could. He wanted to stir it in a mixer! A MIXER! As if I'd have a fucking mixer in this house!)

And… it all went really, _really_ well for a while.

Surprisingly.

Actually… I was having a really good time.

_Honestly_.

His jokes were really stupid, but I still laughed (or at least snorted) at most of them, and he was amusing to watch. The way he focused on the dough, on making sure it was just right, it was like watching a little kid trying to color in the lines. It was endearing, for lack of a better word.

And once the first set of dough (one recipe makes two pizza crusts,) was sitting on the stovetop to rise, the horseplay began.

"Okay, okay, I'll admit, the Godfather was an intense set of movies. You win that," Alfred chuckled as he mixed the ingredients for our second batch of dough together in one of Spain's largest bowls. "But what do you think of my cowboy movies?"

"Psht, you think I've watched a cowboy movie, bastard?" I laughed, as I leant over his shoulder to pour the warmed water into the bowl, to make the yeast rise and create the proper doughy texture.

"How can you not have watched a cowboy movie?!" the other nation exclaimed, gesticulating with the spoon, flinging a bit of flour over his head as he did so. "Come on, they're like, everywhere! And they're so cool! How can you not see the appeal of the wild west!"

"The wild west for me is Spain, idiot," I informed him, wiping the flour from the floor where it had landed with a frown. "And I haven't watched a cowboy movie because they're all about your conceited country. Chigi, you think you're all that because you're all free and shit, supposedly, but hey, Italy is free, isn't it? Because I'm pretty fucking sure at this point almost every country in Europe is 'free,' dammit."

"But we were like, the first country to do that! Damn, now you're insulting my principles," Alfred sulked, kneading the dough with his hands while it was still in the bowl, to see if it was ready to be properly kneaded. "And seriously. Cowboy movies. This is going to happen! The **hero** will introduce you to the awesomeness of the great open west!"

"You sound like that albino bastard," I pointed out, as he began adding more flour to the dough, and I twirled my fingers around in the flour that had spilled out of the bowl and onto the counter.

A sudden urge to flick his face with the flour struck me, and with a tiny, devious smile, I took a handful of it and tossed it right at his face. Unfortunately, he sneezed into his arm at that exact moment, exposing the top of his head to my flour attack. It coated his hair (including the Nantucket) and made it appear to be a shade of white also similar to the albino bastard's. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of the image. "And now you look like him too!"

He looked around, startled, then felt at his hair, and took away a hand also coated in white powder. "Shit!" he cursed, shaking his head out, and only managing to dislodge his glasses from their place on his nose, and send up a tiny cloud of white dust. "Oh, now you're asking for it," he grinned, picking up a handful of flour for himself.

"Not in _my_ kitchen you don't!" I squeal-I mean, _shouted_, in the _manliest of manly_ fashions- ducking behind the round wooden table I'd been sitting with Bella at just earlier that day, in a weak attempt to create a barrier between me and that flour.

"It's not your kitchen, it's Spain's," Alfred said thoughtfully, and then lowered the hand with the flour. He sucked in a deep breath –I assumed, to shout for Spain, probably to ask permission to throw flour in his kitchen– and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, before letting all the air leak out of his chest with a pathetic little wheezing sound.

"What?" I asked him, as he looked, startled, over at the kitchen entrance.

My eyes followed his, and I found myself looking into the roiling green eyes of a particular Spanish nation, with his arms crossed, and stance threatening.

His voice, when he spoke, was low and gravelly, unlike the voice he always spoke in, the chipper, upbeat Spanish accent I was so familiar with.

He was furious, and it was audible. Well, and _visible_.

And… I could even feel it in a creepy, _visible_ aura that was rolling off him in freaking _waves_. And I would be lying if I told you it wasn't _scaring the absolute shit_ out of me.

"No, _Estadounidense_. You cannot throw flour in my kitchen."

"O-Oh, OK then…" America murmured nervously, and carefully replaced the flour on the counter.

"In fact, I think I'll just watch you two to make sure you don't throw flour in my kitchen. I hope that's alright with you both," Spain said dangerously.

That wasn't a question… he was _telling_ us he would be watching us.

There would be no argument.

I knew Spain's pirate voice was scary… but I'd never had it used on _me_.

I felt like my stomach was a pool of boiling acid and Italian guilt in one big pot of nervous.

Nobody would be able to hear _that voice_ and not want to die where they stood… except maybe England or Russia. Because they're both also scary bastards.

"U-Uh, R-Roma… D-Do y-you w-want t-to k-knead i-it?" Alfred asked, his hands shaking so badly as he held the bowl out to me, I could see the dough jiggling from one side to the other.

"S-Sure, lazy bastard…" I muttered, taking the bowl (and shaking LESS than him! Hah!) and dumping it onto the flour-covered counter to begin to knead it.

"SPAIN!" Prussia's voice rang down the hallway, and into the kitchen.

All three of us looked up, and watched as Prussia and Canada, with Canada's bear trailing behind them, made their way awkwardly into the kitchen through the narrow entrance leading from the hallway into the rest of the house. Prussia came in first, his hair mussed and an unpleasant frown on his face. Canada came in directly after him, blushing bright red, and fidgeting with his glasses like there was no tomorrow.

It looked like they were just holding hands, but on closer inspection, I realized they were actually handcuffed together. With a pair of fuzzy handcuffs with the red-yellow-red pattern of the Spanish flag. A furious blush covered my face –that wasn't OURS, was it?– and a flush of pleasure ran up the base of my spine, warning me of my own arousal before it could begin forming. I silently thanked everything that was good and tomato-flavored in the world for my current apron-wearing state.

"Birdie and I were looking around, and then I found these unawesome handcuffs, and for some reason, Kumajirou and Gilbird thought it would be a good idea to PUT THEM ON OUR WRISTS. I want them off. _NOW!_ I don't want kinky shit you used on the brat on my wrist!"

"…oh," Spain said simply, blinking, astonished, at the Prussian and Canadian nations. "Why are you… opposed to having Canada attached to your wrist, exactly?"

…I was just about to wonder the same thing. Aren't they dating now?

"Because Birdie's being unawesome!" Prussia pouted, crossing his arms across his chest, and trapping Canada's hand awkwardly between them. "We're not exactly seeing eye-to-eye at the moment, and the awesome me can't tolerate this kind of suckishness while stuck to his arm!"

"I-I'm really sorry, Spain, this really isn't your problem, a-and I don't mean to get you involved, b-but we really can't get these off…" Canada mumbled, barely audible even though nobody else was speaking. "A-And Gilbert isn't pleased, a-as you can clearly s-see…"

I felt kinda bad for the poor guy… and then Spain choked on nothing in particular, and suddenly there was a warm hand on the back of my neck, turning it this way and that.

"ROMANO!"

It was a pretty decent hand, just so you know.

Not sweaty, but warm.

Not clammy either. You know, because some people have nasty-ass clammy hands.

It was calloused, and rough, but there was something comfortable about that.

And then I realized there was a FUCKING HAND gripping the back of my neck, and holy fuck, what was going on…?

"What happened to your neck?!" Spain exclaimed.

"SPAIN, I NEED THIS SHIT OFF. NOW. IT IS SO UNAWESOME, I CAN'T EVEN."

"…Roma, are you getting _hard?_"

"This is so not okay… can everyone please just try to calm down? Fighting won't get us anywhere, really…"

"IS THIS A** HICKEY**? _ESTADOS UNIDOS, VOY A CORTAR TUS PARTES REPRODUCTIVAS Y METERLOS EN TU GARGANTA SI ESO TRATA DE UN CHUPETÓN!_"

* * *

**A/N:** First things first, translations! There are only a few, so here goes:

_Estadounidense_ - American

_ESTADOS UNIDOS, VOY A CORTAR TUS PARTES REPRODUCTIVAS Y METERLOS EN TU GARGANTA SI ESO TRATA DE UN CHUPETÓN!_ - America, I am going to cut off your reproductive parts and shove them in your throat if this is a hickey! (Roughly... if I'm wrong, correct me)

Next... ah, the next chapter's gonna be a doozy. Or so I hope. If I can actually get it out. Ya know. Let's just say school + depression + discovering sexuality + best friend issues + lack of inspiration + tons of homework = VERY little chapter-work getting done. Like, I can't even. It's so insane. But I so hope you guys enjoyed it... cause I really tried to make it good, even though my mind is just so much mushy shit right now. So yeah... reviews are love. Seriously. I need it. Bad days (and weeks) suck really hard. Either way, I hope I made some of you laugh, at least.


	11. Chapter 11 4

Hetalia, because of some very regrettable circumstances involving a banana, a chihuahua, and a strawberry rhubarb pie, belongs to that Hidekaz guy, and not me. Too bad, too. Oh, well. C'est la Vie. Or something. I can't speak French.

* * *

"Don't either of you MOVE A MUSCLE," Spain shouted, directing Alfred and I over the general clamor ensuing in the other half of the kitchen, where Prussia and Canada were currently yelling at each other –well, Prussia was shouting, and Canada was sort of talking at a normal volume– before crossing over to stand in front of them, seizing the handcuffs, and dragging them bodily out of the kitchen, still arguing, behind him. "I will speak to YOU, _Estadounidense_, later."

Once they were completely out of earshot (read: we couldn't hear Prussia shouting about how "unawesome" everything in life was right now), Alfred breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and rested his full weight on my shoulder. I gasped and stumbled over against the counter under his mass, and became instantly pinned between his large body and the unmoving granite. The dough LONG SINCE forgotten, I prayed silently that he'd forgotten about the awkward erection I was sporting right now.

"…is that really a hickey?" Alfred asked after a moment, looking down at my neck curiously.

"No!" I said reproachfully, but pressed a few fingers to the skin on my neck to feel for one anyway. There was a sore spot right where… "I hit my neck on a door."

"Haha, nobody believes that one anymore, Roma," Alfred laughed, before pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose again. "But, ah, I know we were having tons of fun and everything, what with pretending we've got tension and stuff, but if I'm supposed to get hard off this, I just don't know…"

So he hadn't forgotten after all.

"Shit," I cursed, glancing down at my apron from between Alfred's arms.

There was indeed a bulge in that apron.

"Wow, it's still there and everything. That's kinda impressive," he remarked. "Not a bad size, either…"

"OH SHUT UP!" I hissed, smacking the side of his head, and attempting to shove his body away from me. "And for the love of God, will you get off of me?!"

"Why should I…~?" Alfred asked quietly, pressing his lips to my ear, and burying his nose in my hair. "Aren't we supposed to be… experiencing tension~? I'd call that little thing in your pants hella tension…"

I opened my mouth to curse him out, but my breath caught in my throat as a pair of fingers trailed lightly over the bulge in my apron, and a stream of pleasant sensations shot up my spine directly to my brain. Instead, some sort of "Hah…" noise came out. (How fucking embarrassing…)

"Mm, why don't I… help you with that~?" Alfred suggested, running his fingers over the apron again, before pulling my hips against his leg, and gently pushing up against it.

I bit my lip, very much on sensory overload at the moment, and tried to think properly.

Dammit, what was with this pink haze over my vision?

And erections don't grow this fast, goddammitall.

I should know.

Shut up, don't you DARE ask about that.

But… but why was I so _horny_, DAMN it all?!

And Alfred just kept nudging me with his fucking knee… dammit, what a fucking tease… hngh, fuck, so horny.

Not okay.

Ever.

At all.

"…Roma?" the American asked after a moment, pushing his glasses up on his nose and looking down at me, flustered.

"What?" I asked, not particularly caring about whatever it was he was trying to tell me now.

"You're kind of humping my leg."

"_And?_"

"Oh, okay. Well as long as you know."

"FUCK, WAIT, THIS IS NOT OKAY!" I shouted, clutching my forehead in frustration and stumbling backwards, away from Alfred, until my hip bumped the edge of the kitchen table. "Dammit, dammit, dammit, stop! I can't… we can't… this isn't right!"

"Well what are you going to do, then? Because I could totally get you off, but it might get a little awkward. Especially if Spain comes back," Alfred pointed out. "You should probably just go to the bathroom and take care of it yourself and hope it doesn't come back. I'm not even going to make fun of you for it, because I've had awkwardly-timed erections before too. They're not cool. Especially when your boss sees and gets really pissed about it."

"When- Never mind, I don't want to know," I said, rubbing at the bridge of my nose irritably. "Fine. O-Okay, so I'll… 'go to the bathroom,' and you'll finish this dough and get the other one in the oven, right?"

"Yeah! The hero can handle it!" Alfred brightened instantly, saluting me and grinning ridiculously. "You go… er, have fun with that."

"Shut up, dammit," I cursed under my breath, shooting him a dirty look before slinking back through the closet passageway and into the blue bathroom from before.

Once safely inside, and I had closed the section of wall that double-functioned as a door, I glanced in the mirror and rubbed at my neck. It really did look like a fucking hickey. Just my damn luck.

**\(^.^)/ - Spain…**

S-So I won't even be telling you what happened in the bathroom.

N-Nope.

Because that's REALLY none of your business.

None at all.

Kinda like how what I was thinking of was none of your business either.

I-It _definitely_ wasn't Spain, for your information.

N-Nope. Definitely not.

I don't even know what would make you t-think that.

C-Cause there shouldn't be anything that should make you think that, dammit.

N-Nothing at all.

I'm just a nice Italian doing certain things in a bathroom and thinking of nice Italian women.

…

O-Okay, so maybe they were Italian _men_.

…

Okay, okay, dammit, so maybe they were Spanish.

J-Just a little bit.

…

M-Maybe one particular Spanish man.

Shut up.

I-It's still none of your fucking business!

S-So there.

I didn't tell you anything about it.

And the mafia calls me a pushover.

Ha!

A-As if.

M-Me? A pushover?

Neeeeeever.

…

Shut up. I can fucking HEAR you laughing.

I-It's not funny, dammit.

And speaking of things that were not funny, that stupid door.

I found the tile again after a while… and made my way through that fucking passage again…

But I realized my phone was still dead. So I couldn't see anything. Again.

I really needed to replace these fucking light bulbs.

A-And I only stubbed my toe once. Yay.

You don't need to know how many brooms (I used to hide them in here from Spain so he couldn't make me clean) I knocked over.

O-Or how many times I hit my head on the low-hanging beams. (I wonder if it's still structurally sound in here…)

Or how many spider webs I walked through. (You'd think by now most of them would have been cleared out, but no.)

I got to the kitchen closet.

Eventually.

And heard Spain and America talking.

...

_Fuck_.

"S-So what if it was a hickey?" Alfred stammered.

…

WHAT.

Was he insane?!

He was actually trying to go along with that?!

Spain was going to castrate him!

"So, Lovi is my responsibility, _Estados Unidos_. He can't even remember world history, let alone what Italian-American relations are like. He's my _amado_ and I will not have you taking him away from me suddenly because he lost his memory." Spain was practically growling.

I wondered what he looked like, right about now. Probably giving Alfred one of his darker glares. I remembered those from his pirate/conquistador days… they're scary.

"I don't like your sudden interest in him. I don't like you touching or kissing him. I don't like that you're leaving hickies on him. I'm sure he's confused, and…"

"No, I'm sure he's NOT confused, Spain," Alfred interrupted him, voice strong. "Roma knows what he's doing. Maybe he's just upset SOME people don't understand what he keeps telling them. Maybe he appreciates that I do, and maybe we've grown closer than you thought since then. Or maybe we were just a lot closer than you thought we were in the 1800s. I've known him since the 1840s, you know."

A cold silence followed Alfred's bold statement, and I held my breath despite my already-present state of lightheadedness. Was Spain going to hit him? I wouldn't put it past him... the American was pushing his luck.

"I've known Lovino almost his entire life as a nation," Spain said quietly, "Starting when I was part of Rome. I have been around a hell of a lot longer than you have, _chico_. If you think you can win over _mi Lovinito_, I welcome you to try, because I want what makes Lovi happiest… but if you hurt him, I will not hesitate to start World War III._ ¿Comprendes?_"

W-Well shit.

I can't decide whether I should feel loved or terrified.

I'm gonna go with terrified.

I can't feel my knees.

…

B-But… fuck, I can feel other parts of my anatomy quite… acutely.

There's no w-way it's Spain's possessiveness that's doing this.

A-Absolutely none.

Impossible.

But…

So much for taking care of this in the bathroom.

"Y-Yes sir," Alfred muttered.

"ANTONIO, I THOUGHT YOU WERE GETTING THE KEY AND THEN COMING RIGHT BACK! _WAS ZUR HÖLLE_ IS TAKING SO LONG?" Prussia's voice rang through the kitchen.

"_Jódete, me voy, Gilbert…_" Spain cursed, slamming his fist down on a counter. "Don't fuck anything up, America."

I heard Spain's footsteps storm from the kitchen, before I even dared to open the closet door.

I peeked just my head out, glancing both ways to make sure the coast was clear, before slipping out of the closet (dammit, I'm STILL already gay) and striding quietly over to Alfred's side. I noticed right away that the first dough ball was gone, and the oven now contained both of the first pizzas, and then that Alfred was slumped against one of the counters, while the second dough ball was rising on top of the stove

"Are you alright?" I asked hesitantly, extending a hand to touch his shoulder.

He jumped almost a foot in the air, pulled a fake karate move (What?!) on me, and then as if realizing it was just me, shaking his head and blinking, surprised. "Roma! Where did you come from? Yeah! I'm good! Haha, why would I be anything else?" Alfred grinned falsely, running his fingers through his hair before reaching for the towel covering the second ball of dough.

"Ah, no you don't," I caught his wrist before he could touch the dough, speaking softly. "You touched your hair. Wash your fucking hands, you unsanitary moron."

"Right, yeah, okay," Alfred muttered, pushing up his glasses once again and moving over to the sink.

"Seriously, burger bastard… are you okay? I heard that… i-it was intense," I admitted. "T-Thanks for sticking up for me. Even if we are only fake-interested in each other."

"No problemo," the Western nation grinned, as he turned the faucet on, and grabbed the bar of soap to begin scrubbing at his hands. "I can see where you're coming from. Not that I've ever experienced amnesia myself, but I've known a few humans who have. It sounds like it sucks."

"It does," I growl in agreement, reaching for the second dough ball, to rip it in half and shape it into a more crust-like shape.

"I sorta went through something… like it once," he mused, pausing after turning off the faucet, his hands wet but leaning on the counter, as he looked up at the ceiling contemplatively, body curved in towards the counter like a backwards crescent. I raised an eyebrow, and when he finally looked at me, he chuckled, and then continued, while drying his hands on his apron. "Well you know, I rebelled from England… kind of a long time ago. I didn't want to, I just wanted freedom. It was too much for him. Having all those colonies, and his own people to take care of. At some point, he stopped treating us like his people and started treating us like his property.

"When I finally accepted that for what it was… it was like my whole world turned upside down. I had to reconsider everything I'd known. England wasn't my older brother anymore; he was my oppressor. I had to decide whether I was going to live with it or push him off. And I had to decide soon. Because if he found out my people were growing even more restless because I was considering rebellion, he'd have sent in even more soldiers. So… I asked him over for dinner one night, hoping I could get him drunk enough to take him captive myself and end it right then and there. But in his letter in reply… it was like he wouldn't even consider coming over my place for dinner. It was crazy. He sounded absolutely paranoid. He didn't trust me anymore. And it made me upset. Upset enough to dump a load of tea into the sea to send it back where it came. Symbolically. Because I didn't want to drink England's tea anymore."

"That's… really deep," I admitted. And then, because I'm a bastard, and I couldn't resist, "And corny as hell."

Alfred cracked a grin. "I know. I did that on purpose, because I knew it would piss him off the most, not for any kind of symbolism. But boy, did it work!"

"Well… good for you, I guess," I shrugged, as I placed the dough into a pan, and slid it further onto the counter so nobody would knock it off.

Alfred stuck it in the oven with the rest of them, and I… was still really damn aroused. Fuck.

"I'm… going to go get Feliciano," I choked out, after bunching my apron to better cover the still growing bulge in my pants. "You're going to have to finish it with him, because I… um I need to go…"

"Again?" Alfred asked, his eyebrows arching as he glanced down at my apron. "Is this normal for you? Because it doesn't sound normal… did you eat something funny?"

"No, not that I…" I paused. I hadn't even eaten anything unusual. Bread. Pasta. Tomatoes. Bella's hot chocolate. More pasta. The wine.

WAIT.

Bella's hot chocolate.

And if she's been getting closer with Hungary…!

"Fuck!" I cursed, biting my lip as it dawned on me. "I think maybe Belgium put something in my hot chocolate."

"Belgium?" Alfred asked, sounding skeptical. "But I thought you were friends with her… why would she…?"

"Because of Hungary!" I snapped. "Why else? They want to catch me when I'm horny and take embarrassing gay pictures of me!"

"But I thought you were gay…"

"That's not the point!"

It was getting a hell of a lot harder to think with certain regions of my body throbbing insistently and demanding sex.

I DIDN'T WANT SEX!

No, I did. I did very much.

BUT I DIDN'T!

No, seriously, sex sounds good.

NO! FUCKING HELL!

I sound insane.

I'm going to stop now.

"Well… when did you have that hot chocolate?" Alfred prodded, after pulling one of the pizza crusts out of the oven and beginning to spread tomato sauce (fresh, of course) on it.

"Uh…" I tried to think back to this morning. Bella had given me the chocolate… when? "This morning. Around nine or so I guess. Just a few minutes before Feliciano called. Why?"

"Nope!" Alfred said cheerfully, shaking his head. "I've studied biology and chemistry for the last hundred years. That's not it. First of all because you'd taste an aphrodisiac in that because hot chocolate is a mixture, and the aphrodisiac would have combined with the water to make a thinner solution, so it would have tasted like crap or chemicals, depending on what was used, and second because it would have started working a lot sooner no matter WHAT it was. So the good news is Belgium didn't drug you!"

"Then who the fuck did?!" I demanded, rubbing irritably at my forehead, where I was beginning to develop a pounding headache. Was I dehydrated or something? What was this shit?!

"Well I don't know," Alfred laughed. "I only got here at three, after all. The only thing I watched you drink was the wine. Maybe you just get horny when you're drunk."

"The wine…" I muttered, trying to think. No, I didn't get horny when I drank, but this little wine shouldn't affect me at all, let alone this much. I'm a bastard when I'm drunk, but it takes a lot to get there. "Well I'm not DRUNK. So someone had to have put something in the... wine... Which has been open, in the fridge... Oh, fuck, that could have been anyone..."

"Oh yeah," Alfred intoned. "'Cause everyone was just over your house! Wow, that sucks, dude. You don't know who drugged you."

"Who the fuck would want to?!" I demanded. "Spain doesn't have the brains, Prussia shouldn't care, as far as I know, France... well, he could have, but he was sick so probably not, England would have no motivation to do that, the piano bastard wouldn't do that, Bella would have done it in the hot chocolate, the Netherlands... he's a dick, but he wouldn't waste the shit if he actually spent the money to but it..."

"Mattie wouldn't have done that, that's mean..." Alfred mused. "I don't think your brother would have either, Hungary probably wouldn't have done it herself... who else was over?"

"I thought that was everyone..." I frowned. "Wait..." I was remembering my solitary stroll through the mansion...

"RUSSIA!" Alfred and I both exclaimed at the same time.

"Oh, fuck," I squeaked, as Alfred growled something unintelligible. "I was drugged by Russia! He told me to have some wine later! Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck!"

"Ve, when will dinner be ready?" Feliciano called, poking his head around the corner from the living room. "Is everything alright?" He asked, stepping into view. "Big brother France and England heard shouting... We weren't sure if..."

"No!" I screa- _shouted in the most manly of fashions_, and ducked behind Alfred so he wouldn't see the oh-so-infuriatingly-present bulge in my apron. "Get out of my fucking kitchen! W-We'll have it soon, dammit! Go back to whatever the fuck you were doing!"

"Ve, if you say so, Lovi~!" Feli chirped. "I'll just be waiting hungrily~ It wouldn't take me so long to make a pizza~"

"Fucking-!" I snapped, and went to lunge for his retreating back, but Alfred seized me by my shirt collar, and held me back.

"Hey, leave him be," he insisted, dragging me back a few feet with an ease that made me sick to my stomach. "We should try to figure out how to make you better before we have to serve dinner. It'll be REALLY awkward if you're hard while we're eating."

"Oh..." I frowned, as I realized he was right. "Shit, it will be. Um... Fuck. Can we let Feli finish the pizzas? Maybe we should... act... like a couple... or something...? I don't want to drag this out any longer than possible. Spain's pissed. If we can just get the tea bastard to fall for it, then..."

"Then that's a half success right there! Brilliant, Roma! Alright! Feli said they heard us... So they must be in the sitting room with him. HEY, FELI!" Alfred shouted. "Come finish the pizzas, will you?"

It was less than a second before Feli was back in the kitchen, beaming and tearing my apron over my head. "Ve, alright~! You two go have fun! Shoo! Seriously, _get out of my kitchen!"_ I scurried from the kitchen, part wary of Feli's intense reaction to being allowed to take over the cooking, and part nervous he'd see the bulge in my jeans, but I don't think Alfred was moving fast enough for my brother, because he received a sharp smack on his ass with a wooden spoon. I winced and Alfred yelped and sped up his pace, joining me outside the kitchen, in the hallway by the stairs.

"Ow..." He whined, and I huffed in amusement, before turning and dragging him down the hallway with me, away from Feli's prying ears. He really did have a knack for hearing things he shouldn't.

"So..." I started, once I deemed us far enough away from the kitchen. "How are we going to do this shit? Because Spain is pissed. I know he is. Already. So I want to... speed this up. If I told him I really wanted him, not you, I'm sure he'd be fine -or at least better- with this, but he's also a shit actor, so England would catch on."

"Alright, well after the ground rules you set down, I don't wanna lose my junk, so it's your call, Roma," Alfred grinned. "Although if you want this fast... I'd say the easiest way is to just make out in front of Iggy. France is sick so he can't do the same. He'll see that I can, and that I'm perfectly willing to do so! No economy troubles here!"

"Do we really have to...?" I grimaced. "Fuck. I... I don't want to make Spain any madder. Maybe it would be better if you stopped when Spain comes around so Spain thinks he has you afraid of him, but England sees that Spain's seriously pissed AND you're seriously afraid."

"Sounds good!" Alfred beamed, shooting me a thumbs up.

"A-And, I'm still horny as fuck. So do you know anything about cures to aphrodisiacs, since you're so good at scientific shit?"

"Not if I don't know which one it is," Alfred sighed. He sounded genuinely sorry. "Sorry, Romano. I would get you a cure, but I don't know what's in it, so I can't. But I can probably manage to get you off before Spain finishes un-cuffing Prussia and Mattie, if you like! It'll give Iggy a show, anyway~"

"W-What?!" I spluttered, as he began to drag me down the hallway towards the sitting room by my wrist. "N-No! Not in front of the fuckface! I can't! You can't! And y-you'll be breaking all the damn rules!"

"Roma, where would we be if we didn't break any rules?" Alfred asked, pausing in his rush to the sitting room and sighing dramatically.

"I don't know! I lost my memory!" I exclaimed. "The fuck are you talking about?"

"I'd be England's colony, and you'd be Austria's!" Alfred said, as if this should be obvious to me. "So come on, if we want to get this over with quickly, let's just break the rules!"

"I suppose..." I grumbled, crossing my arms sullenly.

"Yeah, that's the spirit!" He cheered, taking my arm and starting down the hallway anew. "And look at the bright side! If Spain gets REALLY jealous, he might just attack me, steal you, and ravish you in a bedroom somewhere!"

"...that's the bright side?" I groaned. That sounded good to me, and yet... Was I ready for that? "Oh, fuck."

Thankfully, Alfred had no idea where the fuck he was going, so I had time to reconsider the situation.

I was pretending to have some kind of thing going on with Alfred. A DAY after getting back from the hospital. With AMNESIA.

Maybe we should have thought this through more carefully before just... doing it... Wasn't this too soon to start messing around with someone else? Especially considering I'd been in a relationship before I lost my memories?

Yes, yes it was.

So I don't think there was any way around that... But dammit, all I had to do was explain it to Spain! I could tell he was already insanely fucking mad at me... or America... But what the fuck, I wasn't doing this because I LIKED the fucker!

Was he hot? Sure, but he was also a fucking oblivious moron most of the time. And so was Spain. But Spain was more hot than oblivious moron. And less moronic than adorable. S-So I chose Spain over America, yes I did.

I just had to explain to Spain that I was only doing it to help Alfred break up England and France because France was one of Spain's best friends, and I didn't want England around all the time... because he scares the shit out of me...

Oh... Wait.

Back up a second.

France is one of Spain's best friends.

Well... shit.

He probably won't want me breaking up his best friend's relationship.

Especially by pretending to have something sexual going with America, of all people.

S-So maybe this would be a little harder to explain than I had initially imagined.

Or a LOT harder.

It's definitely gonna be a fuckload harder to JUSTIFY to Spain, that's for sure...

But I'm pretty sure England still loves America, if the look he gave him in the hallway, after he saw us, was any indication.

Alfred said himself they broke up over something stupid, and I assumed it was just their pride stopping them from getting back together. They both had seemed pretty volatile, even back in the 1800s. Why should that have changed by now?

Now... don't get me wrong. I'm sure England does care about France too. Fuck, their histories pretty much went together. All that shit in the Middle Ages between all their kings and shit? I think William I, the first king of England with the bloodline that actually continued after that, was from Normandy, France. So... They're close. They've been close. France has helped England, England has helped France. And I don't know anything about "World Wars," (Spain mentioned a three... I assume that means there have been two already?) but I'm sure they helped each other out with that shit too.

But I think... France is like a big brother to England. Sort of. They have more of a rival relationship than England and America.

But England and America... They are like brothers. Because England raised America. And France sort of did that for England... But they also fight. Like, all the damn time. And not just... one and done, like America's revolution. Like, whole fucking wars. The Hundred Years' War, for example.

So... it's for their own damn good, dammit! Because it's not healthy for America to be single. He gets himself into stupid shit and is in a TERRIBLE mood, and bashes Prussia all the time (which I don't really mind) but America is fucking STRONG, dammit, and I'm not going to lie, that could be dangerous. Him being in a terrible mood I mean, not bashing Prussia. I don't care about that bastard. I care about what happens if America decides not to leave Spain, or even worse, go back to Italy and do something incredibly fucking stupid, and destroys part of my fucking country. Like crashing an airplane into a field or a car into a building or something equally DUMB.

N-Not that I haven't likely done shit in the past like that because I probably have... Even more than what I can already remember... Klutz that I am...

But!

My inner rant was cut short, as Alfred finally found the door to the sitting room, stopped outside it, fixed his hair, then pressed me up against the wall (Again! What the hell, was this becoming a pattern?!), causing me to gasp.

One of his hands found its way behind my back, and pulled my torso close against his. My breath hitched in my throat at the contact. His other threaded carefully through my hair, but when he pulled it out to repeat the action, just as he leant in to kiss me, his fingers brushed the curl protruding from the front of my hair, and I moaned desperately.

Pleasure shot from the base of that hair down my spine and straight to between my legs, causing my erection to swell further. My knees buckled out from beneath me, and I actually slid down the wall for about a foot before America caught me, gripping the back of my shirt in one hand, and giving me a curious look.

"What in the bloody hell-?" England's voice echoed from the sitting room, before he was there, standing in the doorway, emerald eyes widening in shock.

Alfred gave a decisive tug on my curl just then though, and I whimpered loudly, causing England to flinch and more footsteps to approach, what sounded like two from the living room, and one, louder, but farther away, and on the hard wood floors of the hallways leading elsewhere in the house. Moments later, the French fuckface stood behind England's left shoulder, and Feliciano behind his right, both with similar expressions of shock to England's. But France's morphed into anger, and Feliciano's into something unreadable, almost like despair, but with a splash of... was that fear?

What the hell was Feliciano... afraid of?

Alfred didn't stop tugging and stroking that damn curl, even though we had an audience now. He'd buried his face in my neck, and was shifting, to make it look like he was kissing it, but was in reality doing nothing, for which I was grateful. But he made up for it by touching the curl, which had more than enough of an effect on me on its own. He kept at it determinedly until that third pair of footsteps, the footsteps of Spain's nice shoes on his nice hardwood floors, reached the corridor near us, no doubt leaving dark black streaks in their wake. My pulse sped in anticipation, and my head rolled over onto my shoulder so I could watch him come, watch the nation I'd had a crush on for decades see me being held, touched by another nation, see what he'd do...

But when he came... all I felt was a sensation of dread form, and drop, like a rock off a boat, until it fell to the pit of my stomach. But there was something else, too... excitement. I was disgusted by it. I shouldn't be excited by this, because Spain was obviously distressed... but he was seeing me like this and mio Dio, I was just so fucking horny, and...!

I don't know... but think I whited out.

But I do know... When I opened my eyes again, I was on the floor, Feliciano was kneeling down in front of me, expression frantic and tears streaming down his face, and someone was shouting. In Spanish.

And then I heard the sound of a fist connecting with flesh, and officially panicked.

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah... I'm really sorry this took so long. I always say this, and I'm always gonna be terrible about it, but I promise you guys, I'll keep updating, even if it takes a long time. This story is just so hard to write without inspiration lol. But, yay for all the diehard Spamano fans out there, the Romerica should end soon! A lot sooner than I'd planned, but I regrettably had to brutally murder all my old plans for this story a couple weeks ago when I started working on it again, because... that's how my inspiration works. If I wait too long, it dies a slow horrible death. So I kill it myself and start over, yay for gruesome metaphors~! Ahaha, sorry this chapter was a little... darker? Less fun? I don't know. Just go with it, kay? I'm going to try to let this story run itself, and I'm trying to stay up really late tonight (don't ask) so I'll write some more, and get a jump on the next chapter! Okay, lovelies? Hope you all had a nice Valentine's day, by the way! (I didn't, in case you cared~)

Also, you all need to LOVE me. Do you know how fucking annoying it is to upload this shit from a phone?! HARD. It takes FOREVER. So enjoy this, dammit.

Translations:

Estadounidense – American (from the United States)

Estados Unidos – United States

Amado - beloved

Chico – boy

Mi Lovinito – my little Lovi

Comprendes? – Do you understand?

WAS ZUR HÖLLE – (German) What the hell

Jódete, me voy – Fuck you, I'm coming


	12. Chapter 12 6

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia never has, and still doesn't, belong to me. So please resist the urge to throw money at your screen for this story, cuz if I take it, I think I can be sued. I ONLY HAVE EIGHTY BUCKS! I DON'T WANNA BE SUED!

*Note: Sorry for the fail!update earlier, my phone decided to be the biggest bitch ever and cramp all the words and spacing together and it just wasn't working well. So I had to fix it and repost it. And ya'll should be grateful, (even though I say this ALL THE DAMN TIME) cuz I may or may not have just allowed my facebook account to be hacked because this computer is virus-y as hell and I had to copy and paste it from there cuz my email for some reason wouldn't open...

* * *

England was fretting, France was coughing, Feli was crying, and Prussia and Canada had finally shown up again, sans-handcuffs this time.

Spain had America pinned down to the ground, one hand fisted in the other nation's hair and supporting his own weight, and the other holding his right arm to the ground, while he straddled the broader nation's chest. America was sporting a bloody nose, which was bent at a concerning angle, and might have actually been concerning to me if I had been able to force my mind to catch up with its surroundings.

I didn't understand what had just happened, and my mind had decided not to compute. In fact, it felt like it had one of those "Sorry, we're CLOSED" signs -that always fucking show up at the worst possible times, right when you really need something only that store has- on it.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing just now?!" Spain shouted, switching back to English after a good thirty seconds straight of pure Spanish cuss words. I didn't even want to think about how I knew what they all were.

"I-" Alfred started to speak, but Spain punched him in the gut, winding him. Apparently it had been a rhetorical question.

"I warned you, Estados Unidos, I did! Now I am serious! You STAY AWAY FROM MY LOVI!" He roared, right in Alfred's face, before picking up and slamming the blond's head into the ground.

"Can't you two at least take it outside?" France sighed, looking more than a little uninterested. Mostly, he just looked sick to his stomach. But if he threw up in this house, I might flip a shit. So he'd better fucking tell them to take it outside, and go the fuck outside with them. Dammit.

"Sí, a good idea," Spain growled, dragging Alfred to his feet by his hair, and storming over to the door the guests had entered through barely an hour ago.

In a daze, I rose to my feet, a little unsteadily, but followed them through the door and onto the gravel path to the drive. The others were right behind me, Prussia and France before the others, probably to back up Spain, should he need it. France didn't really look like he was in any state to help, but eh, who was I to question his stupid decisions?

"Spain, I didn't-" Alfred started again, only to have Spain's hand placed over his mouth.

With a yelp, Spain tore his hand back, and a few drops of blood rained down when he pulled it in protectively to cradle it to his chest. Alfred stumbled away form Spain when his other hand released his hair to inspect the bite mark on his palm, and Alfred wiped his mouth, before spitting on the ground for good measure.

"Romano can do what he likes, Spain-"

"That's not the point!" The Iberian nation screamed, tearing at his own hair, looking absolutely livid. "¡Hijo de puta, eso no es el punto! ¡Me encanta Lovi! ¡Lo amo! ¡Él es mío! ¡Lo sabes! ¡Tienes que parar esto!"

"Romano has to decide that for himself too, Spain! You can't speak FOR him!" Alfred snapped.

I blinked, and wondered what Spain had said. I had gotten a few words out of that, but he was speaking much too quickly for me to keep up, and... was that a LISP?

Did Spain have a LISP when he spoke Spanish?!

Oh, God, how had I not noticed this before!

Holy mother fucking shit!

Even I had to admit, that was fucking ADORABLE.

I mean gay.

Soooooooo gay.

Gay to the degree of gay.

N-Not adorable at all.

...

Oh, fuck it, it was fucking adorable as hell.

And Spain was gay, so my argument was a little invalid.

Shut up.

"I know how Lovino feels about me," Spain growled, beginning to circle around Alfred now, a feral look in his eyes. "And I know you do too! I don't know what you think to gain from this, but whatever it is, I don't like this one bit! Stop using my Lovino towards your own selfish ends!"

Now... even though there was an intensely uncomfortable feeling of a sticky, wet substance in my pants already... I felt a certain part of my anatomy twitch again at the possessive tone in Spain's voice.

"Using?!" Alfred exclaimed. "No! I'm not using him for anything he doesn't want as well!"

"Fratello," Feliciano swallowed nervously, from somewhere just behind me, and I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Fratello, you should come inside... Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine, Feli," I growled, shrugging his hand off. "Let me watch..."

"Fratello!" He complained, stepping between the two circling nations and me. "You're not acting like yourself!"

"Feli!" I mimicked him, giving him a sour look. He looked startled. "Leave me the fuck alone! Just let me do what I want! God, I am SO FUCKING SICK of you all telling me how I WAS! Because this is ME, Feliciano! This is me now!"

"No!" Feliciano shouted, now furious, no longer crying. "No, you are coming with me! We need to have a talk!"

He slapped one hand over my mouth, and with the other, seized my hair curl, and began to drag me back towards the still open door into Spain's house. My eyes flicked from Spain to America to France to Prussia, before settling on England, who was watching me be dragged off, eyes wide.

Unable to do much more than grip Feliciano's arm for support, I tried to signal something, anything to the island nation with my eyes, but he just glanced back at the scuffle behind him, and then at me, not moving in either direction.

Useless bastard! No wonder I fucking hated him!

...

(Disregard the fact that he scares the shit out of me. Just... Compleeeeetely disregard it.)

Feliciano dragged me back into the sitting room, then through the kitchen, and up the stairs to the hallways where all the extra bedrooms were, and into an empty, as of yet unused one.

"Ve, I'm sorry for using your curl, fratello," Feliciano sighed, as he pulled me over to the bed, and sat me down on it, still holding my mouth and my curl. Unapologetic bastard. "But we need to have a talk, and you wouldn't listen otherwise."

Damn straight I wouldn't! Because Feli has no idea what the fuck he's talking about; he never does, and he never wi-

"I know you're faking whatever this is with America," he said darkly.

Oh.

Mother.

Fucking.

Shit.

O-Okay, so maybe he does know what he's talking about.

So what?!

"And it's hurting big brother Spain. And I don't like it."

I went to shout at him, to tell him it was none of his business, but he pulled sharply on the curl, and I slumped forwards, trying to stifle my erection in my stomach, but failing miserably. And a pitiful moan came out instead, loud even through the hand clamped over my mouth.

"Do you know how much Antonio loves you?" Feliciano asked, leaning forward to look me in the eyes, his lips curled into a frown. "He loves you SO MUCH, Lovino. More than himself. More than ANYONE."

Feliciano... was actually serious. What the fuck was going on?!

"What you're doing with America is hurting him, Lovi, and I want you to stop."

Stop? Why the fuck would I stop?! It's WORKING!

"And you sent him out to get oregano this morning, Lovi... Why would you do that?!"

Startled, I sat up, and began struggling to remove his hand from my face, and he actually took it away, allowing me to gasp for breath, before spitting, "What the fuck are you talking about?! What's the big deal about oregano! I couldn't find any, so I told him to get some more!"

"Antonio was out getting oregano when you got into the car crash, Lovi." Feli murmured. "You called me and you were complaining about how Antonio went out shopping without you, and he was acting weirder than normal, and that he was going for oregano, but you found some behind the rosemary and thyme. You said..."

"What? I said what?" I demanded, frowning.

"Y-You said it looked like he'd hidden it to make an excuse to go out." Feliciano whispered. "And then you said your car was just delivered from Italy, and you were going to go out driving to take your mind off it. You sounded upset."

"I... Oh," I managed to get out, through my constricted throat.

Well... Now I knew why I'd been out driving the day of the crash, I guess.

"Antonio called me after he got to the hospital, and I came up from Italy as soon as I could. He hasn't touched anything with oregano in it since the crash. It's like he's made it into a symbol for that day or something."

Shit.

Fucking... shit.

Well this was just fucking great.

I'd been an insensitive bastard and made Antonio think about the crash again, without even meaning to this time! And then the America thing...! No wonder he was pissed off.

"I... I didn't know..."

"Of course," Feliciano waved me off. "How could you have known? Don't worry about that. But this thing with America..."

"T-That's none of your business!" I snapped, put on the defensive again.

"Yes it is!" Feliciano insisted, suddenly angry again. Gesu Cristo, he was acting bipolar today.

"Feli, have you taken your meds yet today-?" I started to ask.

"Don't make this about my medication, Lovino Romano Vargas!" He screeched. "You're hurting Antonio by fooling around with Alfred! What are you doing, and why!?"

Well, shit. Feliciano was scary when he got mad. I can see that hadn't changed...

I looked up from my pants, where I'd been staring for the last few minutes, more out of shame than fear, but when I saw Feliciano's rage-filled eyes, I froze, completely unable to move. Yeah. He could be fucking scary alright. Shit.

"I... I'm just helping out America!" I relented, after the uncomfortable sensation of having my brother's hazel eyes boring into my soul had dragged on for what I felt had been too long. "He... he wants England back, and it's obvious they love each other, and England scares me, and it's bad enough that France comes over to visit, because I know he still does, I can see him and Spain are still close, but if England comes over regularly?! I'll die! Aren't you still afraid of him too?!"

"Oh, Romano, you're trying to help America and England get back together?! That's so sweet!" Feli cheered, throwing his arms around my shoulders, and hugging me tight to his chest. "But it's bad that you're trying to break up Francis and Arthur," he scolded, sitting back and shaking a disapproving finger at me. "And you're making poor Antonio absolutely sick with worry!"

"I know," I admitted, glancing guiltily down at my hands. "But I just have to tell him, and he'll understand! He's still a huge sap for love and all that shit, right?"

"That doesn't make him a sap, ve!" Feli whined, and I smacked him on the arm with an, 'Of course it does, dammit!' "But... Yes, he still... er, loves... love, fratello."

"Then see? I'll be fine," I scoffed. "I can tell Spain that America and England still love each other, and I'm just helping by pushing them in the right direction."

"Jealousy is never a good thing though, Lovi..." Feliciano warned me. "Be careful what you're doing. Why can't you just tell Antonio?"

"I can't tell SPAIN," I said, placing emphasis on his nation name to model to Feliciano how I wanted him to refer to Spain as well. "Because he can't fake anything for his life. And England would realize Spain was faking it, and if Spain was faking it, I'd have to be faking it, and that would mean the whole thing was being faked! And then it's all crap."

"I suppose, ve..." Feli sighed, leaning his head on my shoulder. "Just promise me you'll tell Antonio soon, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, dammit," I huffed, shoving his head off my shoulder. "Just get off me. I'm fine, and I know what I'm doing, and..."

"Ve... Seriously fratello, if you don't tell Antonio soon, I will." Feliciano threatened.

"No, dammit!" I snapped, rising from the bed, and frowning down at my fratellino. "I can handle this..."

And then a bang resounded throughout the room, and I spun around, to find a flushed Spain lying on the floor, looking up at me, and America standing over him, with England behind them both, all three looking guilty.

**(~.~) - Lovi~!**

"Using?!" America exclaimed. "No! I'm not using him for anything he doesn't want as well!"

"Oh, I'm sure that's because you're doing a fine job of coercing him, América!" I snapped. "He has AMNESIA! What the fuck is your problem, going after MI NOVIO, MY BOYFRIEND just because he lost his memory?!"

He opened his mouth to reply and I dove at him, thoroughly sick of hearing what he had to say. My fist was drawn back, aimed for his face, to see if I could break more than just his nose, but when I struck forward, he caught it, and I planted my left foot firmly on the ground, deciding to kick him instead. The top of my foot connected hard with the side of his thigh, and he grunted, but otherwise gave no indication of discomfort.

B-But... that was my infamous long-shot kick! The football always goes... wicked far when I kick it like... like that... What the...?

I gaped at him for all of one second before he moved, shoving me backwards, forcing me to windmill my arms to maintain my balance. I ended up approximately back where I started, and righted myself, spitting at him for good measure. Fuck, he was strong. I almost wondered how I managed to break his nose earlier, but decided I probably wouldn't like the answer- he was distracted.

"If you're going to interrogate me, can you at least let me answer the questions?" He asked, shifting to his other foot and rubbing at his nose. "Dammit, that hurt..." He whined.

"Then let me help you make it hurt even more!" I shouted, running at him again, but as he stuck out one hand to catch my face, I ducked to the side, and punched him in the side of the torso, which actually caused him to stumble away from me a few steps.

He turned to intercept my next hit, but I seized his wrist and tried to twist it back. He held it in place, causing his muscles to flex, and we struggled in place for a good half a minute, me trying to bend his arm back, and him holding it completely still.

"¡Dios maldito carajo!" I shouted, releasing his arm, infuriated by my lack of progress. I turned around, threaded my fingers through my hair gently, and took a few slow steps away from him, before spinning back around, and punching him square in the eye.

On what must have been instincts, his hand shot up and gripped my wrist, so as he staggered backwards, he tugged me with him, gripping so tightly I wondered at how my wrist was not snapping like a twig yet. England shouted something, and France and Prussia were closing in on the pair of us, probably intending to pull America off of me if he actually broke my wrist. But... There were a couple of sounds missing.

Lovi wasn't cursing... And Feliciano wasn't crying.

"...whoa. Where's Roma?" America asked, at the same time I wondered aloud where the Italies had gone.

"Huh?" Prussia asked, his job as moderator of our quarrel completely forgotten as he glanced back towards the open door to the house. "Did Feli even come out? I wouldn't think Romano would even be able to stand, after..."

"¡Cállate!" I shouted, daring him to finish that sentence. Nonetheless, I yanked my arm from America's grasp, and stormed towards the door, where Lovi must still be.

"Veneziano took him inside," England spoke up, clearing his voice and tugging at his collar awkwardly. "Said they were going to have a talk."

I nodded to him, noticing just before I turned back to search for Lovi in the house that England had stuck an arm out to stop Alfred from following me in. "Francis, Gilbert," I barked, summoning my two amigos to follow me into the house, just in case, but also to give England and America whatever privacy it was England felt they needed. I hated England, the bastard had sunk my Armada, but maybe if he had words with America, he would be able to stop this ridiculous pursuit of my Lovi.

"Francis, you take the west wing, Gilbert, the east, and I'll start checking upstairs, alright?" I directed, and my friends nodded, before starting off searching in their assigned cardinal directions.

I passed through the kitchen, and noticing the pizzas were finished cooking, turned off the oven, before proceeding up the stairs, and checking both hallways at the top of the stairs to see if they had decided to stay to stand and chat in either of them. They hadn't. So I stood at the top of the stairs, looking indecisively down first one, then the other, when I heard it-

"Don't make this about my medication, Lovino Romano Vargas!" Feliciano's voice screeched from behind me, causing me to startle, and spin completely around, to stare at a bedroom door I'd entirely neglected to notice.

The next words were muffled, but I could tell Feliciano was speaking. I was about to open the door, but then I heard my name mentioned, and my curiosity piqued, I pressed my ear to the crack in the door, and listened. There was a shifting sound, like one of them had changed positions, then I could hear Lovi mentioning America, before I got a full piece of the conversation.

"He... he wants England back, and it's obvious they love each other, and England scares me, and it's bad enough that France comes over to visit, because I know he still does, I can see him and Spain are still close, but if England comes over regularly?! I'll die! Aren't you still afraid of him too?!"

That was definitely Lovi's voice. I had no idea he still felt that way about Francis... but then, he was also thinking like newly independent Lovi, not the Lovi I was used to. He really had gotten better recently, he was standing up to Francis and everything~!

"Oh, Romano, you're trying to help America and England get back together?! That's so sweet!" Feliciano's voice again.

"Toni? Did you find Romano yet?" It was Gilbert's voice, but him and Francis both ascended the stairs, making entirely too much noise to a conducive eavesdropping environment.

I hushed them quickly and intensely, violently gesturing for them both to kindly shut the fuck up. They exchanged a look, before rushing -quietly, thank God,- up the stairs, and joining me at the door.

Francis gave me a questioning look and I pointed at the door, doodling an air curl out from my hair to signal to him that the Italy brothers were inside. Gilbert's red eyes lit up in understanding, but Francis just cocked his head to the side, baffled. Gilbert took him by the shoulders and spun him around, attempting to show the Frenchman via Charades who was behind the door, first by acting like Feliciano, doing a terrible impression of Feli's white-flag waving.

I ignored the two of them and pressed my ear back to the door, hearing Lovi say, almost a little... guiltily? "I know... But I just have to tell him, and he'll understand! He's-"

"Spain! What the fuck are you doing?!" America's voice called from the bottom of the steps, causing both Francis and Gilbert to whirl around and give him silencing death glares, which he ignored. "Did you find Romano yet? What... Are you EAVESDROPPING?"

"¡Sí! ¡Cállate!" I hissed, beckoning without looking back at him for him to join me, and then for Francis and Gilbert to move aside, since they weren't listening anyway.

I couldn't hear what was being said over their whispering and America's loud footsteps, even though I had both my eyes scrunched up and even a hand over my nose, since blocking some of your senses was supposed to heighten the others.

"...just helping by pushing them in the right direction," that was Lovino's voice again. Pushing who?! And why was America talking again NOW? Damn, I couldn't hear with him babbling on like this!

"No, I'm done talking to you, England!" America was saying, hallway up the steps, glaring down at England with crossed arms.

"Well I wasn't finished talking to YOU, boy..." England started to reply, but I cut him off by giving them both the dirtiest glare I could muster.

"How about the both of you SHUT UP so I can hear?" I hissed, before turning back to the door, and pressing my ear to the crack once more.

"What exactly are you listening to?" England asked, annoyed.

"Romano!" America and I whispered at the same time, although I said it angrily, and he said it disapprovingly.

England's eyes shrank into slits, but he rushed up the steps to join us anyway, and I put my ear back to the door as the pair of them reached the landing and also leant in towards the door.

"Just promise me you'll tell Antonio soon, okay?" Feliciano said.

...tell Antonio what? What were they talking about?! Dios, what would Lovi be keeping from me?

America and England seemed to be thinking the same thing, and exchanged dubious glances over my shoulder, which I ignored.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, dammit," Romano huffed. "Just get off me. I'm fine, and I know what I'm doing, and..."

"Ve... Seriously fratello, if you don't tell Antonio soon, I will." Feliciano threatened darkly, and I scowled, completely nervous now.

"Spain... maybe you shouldn't be listening in on this..." America whispered, and stepped back from the door, as if to set an example. "If there's something Romano wants to keep to himself..."

"I should know about it!" I growled, shoving America away from the door on impulse.

"Hey!" He snapped, shoving me back, and whereas my push had done little to move him at all, his sent me flying down the hallway, to land on my ass with a grunt.

I scrambled to my feet and ran back at him, and he rolled his eyes in what looked like exasperation before gripping the back of my neck, and slamming me into the door with a bang.

Before I could get a grip on what was happening, I looked up, and realized I was on the floor, looking up at Lovino and Feliciano, the former standing with his hands on his hips and glaring down at me, and the latter sitting on the edge of the bed, looking startled. Feliciano giggled and waved to me, and I smiled weakly and waved back.

And then Lovi spoke. "Were you bastards EAVESDROPPING ON US?!"

"N-No?" I tried, giving him what I hoped was one of my best grins. But I was shaking, so I don't know how it actually turned out.

"GET OUT!" He shouted, pointing back out the door I'd just fallen through, and I could hear England and America's footsteps rushing down one of the hallways, leaving me to my fate.

"L-Lo siento, Lovi, it won't happen again, I, uh... It was América! Not me! F-Fusososo, wasn't this funny~? What a cute accident~! Um..."

"Shut up!" He growled, stomping over to where I lay, and crouching down to more effectively glare me down.

"U-Um... The pizzas are done, Lovi!" I told him.

"What?! Fuck! Feli, I told you to finish the pizzas! You left them there?! They're gonna get cold!" He seized my collar and towed me to my feet, and started pulling me towards the stairs, down to the kitchen. "You're helping me with the pizzas, dammit, since Feli and Alfred are being useless!"

"Oh! Uh... okay, Lovi~" I laughed nervously, and attempted to keep up with him as he led (read: dragged) me down the stairs. "I'd be glad to help~"

"H-Hmph," he frowned. "Yeah, you better be, dammit, it's your fault Feli left them anyway."

"It is?" I asked, not quite understanding how that was my fault, but going along with it anyway. "Um... okay~!"

* * *

**A/N:** Haha... Um, well this time I updated faster than last time! I'm really sorry for the inconvenient timing I have, I actually had this nearly done about a week ago, I just... didn't like it enough. But then I went through and tore it up and redid it, and now it's better. Well, that and I was busy tearing through the Beautiful Creatures series so fast I wasn't getting any sleep at night until I'd finished the book I happened to be on at the time. But now it's done, and here, and I'm sorry if the fight scene was terrible, I am a romance writer, not an action writer. XD

**Translations:**

"¡Hijo de puta, eso no es el punto! ¡Me encanta Lovi! ¡Lo amo! ¡Él es mío! ¡Lo sabes! ¡Tienes que parar esto!" - Son of a bitch! That's not the point! I love Lovi! I love him! You know this! You must stop this! (Roughly)

"¡Dios maldito carajo!" - God fuck damn! (Roughly, again, sorry)

"¡Cállate!" - shut up

"Lo siento," - Sorry


End file.
